


All Who Wander

by DatSonyat



Category: Digimon - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Amnesia, Angst, Awkward Romance, Characters with Touch Aversion and OCD, Developing Friendships, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Epic Friendship, Eventual Relationships, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Humor, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Mutual Pining, Occasionally crack, Original Universe, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Life Partners, Platonic Relationships, Polyamory, Possibly Unrequited Love, Religious Conflict, Romance, Slight torture, Star-crossed Friendships, Survivor Guilt, Team as Family, ace characters, awkward everything, lots of humour and love and friendship to make up for angst and pain lmao, political scheming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-01-03 18:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12152472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DatSonyat/pseuds/DatSonyat
Summary: Not all who wander are lost, and sometimes the answers we seek are found in the strangest places—or people. A gruff, disgraced swordsman shouldering a burden—or a cataclysm lying in wait—and a deceptively cheerful gunslinger who's far more than he appears to be may just be looking in the wrong directions...[A series of non-chronological stories set in the same universe.]





	1. unsaid

**unsaid**

**.**

**.**

**.**

"Gonna rain today," Beelzebumon says offhandedly, sparing a brief glance skywards as his metallic claws shred the sprawling forestry that is determined to block their path in a maelstrom of luminescent violet sparks.

Vines disintegrate, wood splinters and shatters, and the ancient, gnarled trees nearest—so massive in scale that they must appear miniature playthings amongst a world of giants and old gods—sway and groan from the sheer force of the blow.

Tactimon can appreciate the irony (and incidentally, does not ever call Yggdrasil's name ever again).

He eyes them as visible data trembles and dances up and down them as they threaten to collapse into themselves, monoliths that have existed far longer than he has—he who could one day carve the stars from the sky and split the very fabric of reality in two.

(But he will not. He is waiting, searching and waiting.)

And, he thinks with no small amount of disdain, there is Beelzebumon—who he  _can't_  deny  _is_ an old god in his own right, capable of reducing the Digital World to wispy ashes and empty data should he desire it—happily humming an annoying tune to himself and hopping up and over huge roots with childlike glee and amusement.

"Idiot," Tactimon says under his breath, more to himself than the demon lord.

Beelzebumon pounces and gracefully sails through the air, spinning mid-air to face him as he lands on another root, ugly leather boots soundlessly making contact—and it's another contradiction that infuriates and puzzles Tactimon, and stokes the curiosity inside of him.

What is he? Is he truly a fool granted far too much power or is he merely acting the fool?

(Perhaps he is simply playing with Tactimon. He hates the bitter taste it leaves in his mouth and swallows it back into some deep part of himself that he wishes he didn't know, because he is  _Tactimon_  and knows  _every_  aspect of himself.

A secret that cuts to his digicore to admit: he  _doesn't_.)

Beelzebumon's heartbroken expression is disgustingly hilarious or hilariously disgusting—either way, Tactimon sneers—and he spreads his arms out in an exaggerated gesture. The passing sunlight filtering through the near limitless treetops casts a strange, golden silhouette across his figure that is somehow fitting.

"Oh, come on, babe"—Beelzebumon snaps his head to the side, narrowly avoiding a Tanegashima blast that leaves the tips of his platinum blonde hair singed black, and if he cares, he certainly doesn't show it—"why you gotta hate?" he replies, utterly crestfallen, gold eyes ridiculously large and glassy, showing more fang than necessary as his pout deepens.

Tactimon is fairly sure if he were any other digimon, this display would look far more terrifying than any manner of endearing.

"Idiot," he repeats scornfully, shaking his head. "Do not call me…  _babe_ ," Tactimon says with poorly constrained disgust.

Of all the disrespectful nicknames…

"Hmm," Beelzebumon closes his eyes for a moment and taps his chin, the light shining over his pensive face granting an aura of innocence. "Well, I guess I could call you—"

"Tactimon," he interjects, deadpan.

"—honey?" Beelzebumon suggests with naively good cheer, grinning stupidly and giving a double thumbs up before he's forced to duck a more forceful Tanegashima that levels the forest immediately behind him, deafening and burning everything away in a flood of glowing data particles.

The world darkens all at once with the explosion, colour leaching from the rich emerald green of the coiling plants and lush leaves and towering bamboo stalks. All the violet and fuchsias, and even the shy, sparsely dotted white of the voluminous, blooming flowers fade into a dreary monochrome.

Tactimon blinks behind his polished mask, turning his attention away from Beelzebumon to look up into the yawning black void of the sky—rather, what would be the sky if he could see it—hand resting on the hilt of his thrumming sword.

_Impossible._

According to his meticulously thought-out plan, there shouldn't have been others nearby, not in a fifty mile radius. All that had  _dared_  were dead, data destroyed beyond any form of salvaging and the rest too rightfully terrified to do anything but flee.

No, he has not miscalculated to this degree, of this he is  _absolutely_ certain, and feels a rising anger bubbling up in his chest. His calculations are always,  **always** _perfect_. His hand tightens around Jatetsufuujin-maru, shaking, however imperceptibly, with rage.  _How_ —

Tactimon hears it before he sees it.

A drop at first, the unmistakable sound of a fat water droplet hitting a leaf, then another, and another until there is a chorus of heavy rainfall echoing for miles in all directions. Thunder rumbles incredibly soft, so far away and quiet he can barely hear it.

" _Gonna rain today."_

For a fraction of a second, he almost considers letting his iron control slip. There is a hint of laughter containing no humour caught in his throat that he cannot seem to let go of.

Tactimon knows the Digital World, knows how quickly everything can become something else in the blink of an eye, but he is also one of so few able to predict the outcome of all things.

It is the thing he prides himself most on.

_Liar,_  his own blended with the voices of his past hiss in unison.

Sparse droplets of rain begin to pelt down over his flawlessly maintained armour, darkening the fabric and sliding down the gleaming metal.

…It  _was_  the thing he prided himself most on, before Omegamon, before the dishonour and disgrace and failure the Royal Knight had brought him, still brings him every waking minute of every day. Omegamon even haunts him in his dreams, forces him to remember each and every tiny thing he failed to do.

There is no respite from this.

Tactimon allows himself to laugh then, a single harsh bark of a bitter sound. No, he has brought his own failings and his own fall upon himself, and…

…and the great Maou no Beelzebumon is both a terrible reminder of all the things he's failed to do, of all the things he may yet fail to accomplish, of something he fears he will never be, but he is also…

Beelzebumon, no longer pressed flat to the forest floor after dodging the second Tanegashima, grips his shoulder firmly, a solid, reassuring pressure against his armour.

"Tactimon," he says, deep voice soft in an uncharacteristically rare way that reminds him of the ephemeral crimson blossoms that were so coveted in Akasuna. Countless hands had reached and snatched for them in desperate greed like the dear treasure they were regarded as.

Tactimon never saw the point, had slapped away one that had been offered to him and let the molten petals scatter in the wind along with the broken shards and pathetic tears of a fragile, delicate digimon's heart.

The demon lord is neither of those, though, and will never wither nor shy away.

It is as if Beelzebumon can hear his conflicted thoughts. He moves until he's close enough that Tactimon can feel his cape ripple with movement and is torn on whether or not to slam his sword into the brave, stupid digimon. His hand shifts down Tactimon's shoulder, gingerly trailing his arm until his gloved hand is resting over the tense one throttling the growling Jatetsufuujin-maru. He squeezes gently, then tugs, a silent request to stop.

"You good?" his companion asks in his ear, whisper-quiet, so close helmet and mask are nearly touching. At least he's intelligent enough not to cross that boundary.

Beelzebumon's voice is filled with a heavy, barely concealed emotion Tactimon does not wish to hear because he is aware it is reserved for him alone—it's better if he refuses to acknowledge it—but it is grounding all the same, and the swordsman breathes the present back in, though he feels a sharp stab of the fiery ( _Grey Sword_ ) blade of the past through his gut.

" _How long are you gonna keep doing this to yourself?"_

_Until the end of my existence_ is the truth, however it is no longer an answer Beelzebumon accepts, and Tactimon  _detests_  with an icy hatred the worried pity that drips off the words every time the question is asked.

There are moments when he undeniably despises Beelzebumon and he uses them to his advantage without fail.

"Indeed," Tactimon answers in a tone wrought of hard steel, his only warning the subtle shift of his sword. "I do not recall giving you permission to  _touch_  me, do you, Beelzebumon?" he continues with increasing coldness, letting controlled fury ripple through the word. His skin itches furiously though there are many layers separating the two of them.

Beelzebumon pauses only for a moment, seemingly frozen, before the warmth and pressure of his closeness is gone and he skips a few feet ahead, twirling on his muddy heel to face Tactimon.

"Okay, okay, I give! Sorry! My bad," he says, impish smile exposing his fangs as he laughs under his breath, humour glittering in his eyes.

But Tactimon isn't blind or stupid; he thinks he sees regret and longing in those golden eyes until the demon lord blinks and it's replaced by his usual laidback, sunny demeanour.

(How much does he regret himself?)

"But can you really blame me?" Beelzebumon arches an eyebrow beneath his mask, throwing his arms behind his head. "I mean—" He clears his throat and pointedly gives his friend a very slow once-over and mouths "fiiiiine as fu—"

"My armour is very fine, isn't it," Tactimon states flatly, giving the other digimon a clear out. He releases Jatetsufuujin-maru, the sword going silent as the strained atmosphere breaks. He resists firing off another barrage at Beelzebumon—if only to minimize further destruction—and looks to where his blasts have damaged the terrain. Judging by the finely quaking earth and new perilous cliff, it's not quite as viable a path as previously planned.

"Yeah, that ain't gonna work for a bit," Beelzebumon comments, peering down over the cliff's craggy, steep ledge, observing something unseen to Tactimon, who follows his gaze. At best, all he can make out is the vague shimmering of flowing water.

"Why?" he asks, masking his suspicion. Beelzebumon can fly and he's more than capable of using his cannons for aerial maneuvers.

"Storm'll get worse, super high flash-flooding, mudslides—in case you haven't noticed, the land is in pretty bad shape because  _someone_  was trigger-happy," Beelzebumon replies, eyes narrowed at Tactimon in amusement, ticking the issues off on his claws as he speaks. "Plus," he adds, holding up his index finger to silence any protests.

Tactimon makes a slow show of crossing his arms.  _Idiot,_  he wants to say again, but has already used up his self-allotted number per day.

"I really don't wanna listen to you whine about being wet and save us from the  _mud_  and being dirty and  _sweet Yggdrasil up in the kernel_  because we  _absolutely_  need to be spotless and  _immaculate_ , just  _no_ ," Beelzebumon smears his palm down his damp mask, clearing what moisture has gathered there. He drops his hand to fix Tactimon with raised eyebrows and slightly downturned lips, his expression embodying the tired essence of  _there is no way in hell we're doing this again, you stubborn bastard_.

The swordsman bristles at his words, however… he is far from being able to feasibly argue the demon lord's points without resorting to outright lies, and his pride won't allow such a thing. He chooses to trust Beelzebumon's apparent precognition this time. It will serve as an interesting experiment, at least; he may yet learn the truth behind the Lord of Gluttony.

"Hmph, very well," Tactimon coolly agrees and turns sharply, clothing dramatically flaring to the side with a wet slap. The rain is finally starting to penetrate the thick canopy above them, thus it is no surprise that they're beginning to become soaked.

Beelzebumon snorts at the sight, clearly choking down a laugh. Much to Tactimon's momentary surprise, he sprouts a pair of his massive, black feathery wings, adjusting their size to stretch one over his head. The rainfall is blocked immediately by the dense, data-altered wing.

"See, I have a use after all," he chuckles, grinning a genuinely happy— _lov_ —affectionate smile—and winking, "your own personal umbrella."

Tactimon looks away from him and remains silent, crushing the odd sensation that flits through him. He doesn't need this, he has never needed it. He has never seen the point. He has never wanted to see the point, but Beelzebumon who is simultaneously so simple and so mysterious keeps breaking down the iron gates after tall, unshakeable walls after perfect fortresses that should have been impregnable.

He intrinsically knows himself, but there are admittedly pieces he has not allowed himself to learn, and while he does not know the scope of the full truth behind Beelzebumon, he knows their situation—their entirely bizarre partnership—is an unsustainable one.

Tactimon, for all of his genius and battle prowess, is no longer fighting on a battlefield where he has the advantage. He cannot predict the outcome of this.

"Hey, ba—Tactimon?" Beelzebumon asks nervously, watching him keenly out of the corner of his eye, "what did I say this time? Hey, come on, don't tell me about the helmet, I know that face. What did I do?"

Tactimon gives an imperious huff and drops into a practiced, fluid seiza under a series of immense protruding roots that will provide an adequate amount of shelter, intent on meditating.

"I have no desire to speak about it…  _idiot_ ," he says in irritation, grudgingly willing to break his rule until he reaches a satisfying conclusion.

Beelzebumon blinks several times and suddenly it's like a lightbulb's gone off inside his dim head, then his tight expression relaxes and he bursts into loud, heaving laughter that echoes throughout the expanse of the forest.

"Sure thing, tsun-tsun," he cackles, perching himself atop the roots, glossy wings folding downwards to curl protectively around Tactimon. "Don't worry, babe, I'll save you from the  _evil_  rain."

Tactimon slams the hilt of Jatetsufuujin-maru directly above him without saying a word, the killing intent clear in the very air itself. The trees around them heave and creak and the ground shakes in ominous measured tremours, yet Beelzebumon himself barely moves an inch. He keeps on laughing under his breath.

His occasional chuckles die down until they're alone with the soothing sound of the rain, and then Beelzebumon is alone with himself when Tactimon falls into near stillness and absolute silence.

Data streams running under the ground faintly glow in tandem with various flora, taking an edge off the pervasive darkness, lending an ethereal appearance to all the things his old, perfect eyes can see. He can hardly feel the rain or the sense of cold it should bring.

"Y'know, Tactimon," Beelzebumon says, a ghost of a smile crossing his face, knowing full-well that the first friend he's made in centuries will never hear him. "I didn't think this eye of mine had anything worthwhile left to see… Now, though…" he trails off, subconsciously pulling his wings in tighter, drawing closer to Tactimon. "I'm afraid"—he has to hold in the humourless laugh because Maou no Beelzebumon has never feared anything or anyone—"this is all a nice dream I'll eventually have to wake up from."

He gazes down between the roots, following the black and gold and red of Tactimon's armour, the hard lines and jewels and elegant fabrics, and the similarly regal sword that will lead him to his destiny.

"Can't even see it, for all the good this eye does me," Beelzebumon murmurs, tiredly glancing back out into the darkness that's always been his bedfellow. There are only two futures he wishes to see these days and neither are clear.

"Say, Tactimon, I wonder if you…" the demon lord trails off in a whisper, focusing on something far off in the distance. "Do you know that I…"

Beelzebumon sighs to himself, a silent, easy laugh shaking his form.

"Well, maybe it doesn't need to be said anymore…"


	2. era's end

_many, many decades ago, long before the man who would show him a future could exist yet_

_a monster who is a man finally gazes into the abyss_

_and when the unfathomable horror of the abyss gazes back_

_an era ends_

* * *

**era's end**

**.**

**.**

**.**

The evening is silent as the grave and a mild breeze drifts through her sheer curtains as Lilithmon idly goes over her maps. There's barely enough strife left to call it a war and those still foolish enough aren't worth her time. Most of what she desires is already within her grasp and that which isn't will have to wait.

She's a very patient woman, however, and more than that, the end of this war will mark the end of an era.

When Lilithmon hears a familiar set of deliberately heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway, she knows her prediction has come true, yet she's vaguely surprised, anyway.

Not surprised that such a day has come, no, she's known for as many years as she's quietly observed the once terrifying yet charismatic ruthless overlord slowly disintegrate into a dead-eyed, cracking husk of what he used to be.

Lilithmon doesn't need to see him to understand why proud Maou no Beelzebumon sounds like he's dragging himself to a funeral—or rather, the end of the world.

She sighs and lifts her teacup, blowing at the white plumes of steam. It's all an enormous waste, really. She's aware he thinks so, too, but for vastly different reasons she simply can't reconcile.

His footsteps come to a stop behind her, and his towering, broad-shouldered form blocks out the sickly amber of the setting sun, casting lanky, deformed shadows across her papers and the wall.

"Lilithmon," Beelzebumon acknowledges her, voice low and intense in a way she's never heard before. He forgoes the nickname he gave her a long, long time ago and it becomes even more apparent that the digimon she used to know has been swallowed by the ever-growing void devouring him from the inside out, much like his crest.

"Well, well," she says in her husky contralto, an amused smirk tugging at her lips despite herself. Lilithmon shifts in her chair, rearranging herself in elegant motions so that she's facing him. As she re-crosses her legs, she remarks, "I must admit, I wasn't expecting you to come." She can't deny her intrigue.

To him, there are those far more worthy and deserving of his final words than her. There's very little left to say between them that they both don't already know.

"Yeah," Beelzebumon replies with a bitter smile that borders on menacing. His sharp, unblinking eyes drill holes into her. "Neither was I." The minute harsh flick of his tail doesn't escape her notice, a telltale tic that even though he's this far gone, he's still sneering down at her as if he's always been superior.

_The pride of men,_  Lilithmon scoffs internally, regarding him through hooded lashes, an acidic frown eating away at her formerly perfect mask of sarcastic mirth.

Lilithmon's hardly shocked by the lack of his usual commanding aura and electric energy and confident force; where once upon a time any words he uttered could've set countless armies marching to whatever destiny he brought them, much like the heady, pulse-pounding thrum of war drums.

Now everything he says is grossly empty, not worth the blind worship his legions of ignorant minions continue to lay at his feet.

"And so? What shall you bless me with today?" Lilithmon asks with scorn, casually taking a sip of her fragrant tea.

Beelzebumon's eyes harden along with the lines of his face, and his mouth twists into a warped grin that's more a frozen snarl than anything else, pointed fangs on display like a beast. "Bless  _you_?" he echoes derisively—and for a second he appears the person she used to know—before fading back into a black hole of nothingness, bare hints of her disgust mirrored in his yellow gaze.

Perhaps his self-hatred extends so deeply that he can't look another Maou in the eye without seeing and condemning himself. Briefly, Lilithmon wonders if such is the work of the painfully naïve, misguided Dukemon's sermons.

"I'm  _finished_ ," Beelzebumon says to her, arms sweeping outward dramatically, gesturing at everything, before they limply fall back to his sides. "I'm done with  _this_ ," he growls, head snapping sharply to glare out the window at something unseen, " _all_ of it. There's nothing left for me here." He turns back to her, serious beyond all shadow of a doubt. "There's gonna be  _nothing_  left for any of us. We have  _no_  future."

How Lucemon would've revelled in seeing his rival so  _broken_.

"Pathetic," Lilithmon shakes her head, long golden hair ornaments shaking as she does in soundless laughter. "Truly, it was never  _you_  whom I expected to first lose his nerve. A conscience doesn't suit you." Her violet-nailed claws trace over her intricate cup, clacking softly over each indent.

For the first time, Beelzebumon is seemingly offended. "A conscience?" he spits out, his churlish laugh a rough, grating sound. He snaps his metallic claws at her, a spark of purple igniting the burgeoning darkness of the night. "Cut the act, Lili. I know you're not all tits and pretty words."

Of course she's so much more. Ultimately, they both are and the degree to which they've been underestimated has led to more than one downfall. (The petty side of her hopes they're rotting in their prisons or in the lurid embrace of death.)

A sly smile curving like a sickle reveals her fangs and she laughs genuinely. "Oh my, so you're not as stupid as you appear, either," she titters behind her hand, devious eyes gleaming like polished emeralds. "Leaving what remains of the Maou to me while you go off to play the brave, oh-so-heroic warrior?" Lilithmon places a hand over her breast, feigning admiration, and speaks like a love-struck juvenile. "How noble, then."

Beelzebumon is beside her in a blur, and in the same instant Lilithmon surges upwards with her Nazar Nail, she feels the cold metal of the twin barrels of one Berenjena pressed firmly against her chin and stops dead. A gust of wind from the speed of his movement scatters the papers from her desk and sends her cup crashing to the floor. Beelzebumon snatches her left wrist, gripping it with unparalleled strength and yanks her to her feet so they're standing eye to eye.

"What a waste," Lilithmon finally says aloud, eyes narrowed in displeasure, icy anger slowly diffusing throughout her, but she's used to the posturing her… 'allies' often feel the need to do. "Pride of men, indeed," she mutters under her breath, ignoring the way the bones in her wrist grind together underneath the skin and the fiery pain that courses down her arm with it.

"Can you do it?" Beelzebumon asks her solemnly, eyes burning like coals in their sockets, similarly ignoring the Nazar Nail that's trailing hisses of steam and data across his chest. His expression doesn't change in the face of the corrosion of his very being, and Lilithmon finds herself oddly pleased.

"Could you have left Lucemon to his fate without me?" she returns with equal seriousness, pressing deeper with her index finger, geysers of steam and dark, poisoned blood gushing forth.

It's the truth.

Beelzebumon stares at her a moment longer, wholly unreadable and blank as a statue, then releases her. His gun doesn't leave his hand, though—a testament to how rightfully wary he should be.

"Alright," he says, utterly emotionless, the intensity behind his eyes dulling and the tension seems to drain from his body. He offers her a nod of his head—perhaps the only sign of respect she'll ever see again—and turns towards the balcony, boots soundless against the stone floor. "Live up to your title, Miss Goddess of Darkness. Later."

Lilithmon watches him go, and it's more surreal than it is satisfying. Beelzebumon has existed far longer than she, and she doubts his followers will take his abrupt disappearance in stride. If anything, he was a fine actor until the very end, his breaking visible to so few. There aren't many intelligent enough to put the pieces together. His absence will leave a massive power vacuum—a challenge she'll certainly look forward to fulfilling, and yet…

"What of Mugendramon?" Lilithmon asks honestly, crossing her arms as her wings flare in irritation. This will be the last she sees of an 'agreeable' Beelzebumon if she dares to touch that rabidly loyal metal monster, who will  _never_  accept another master or that his has completely abandoned him without a second thought.

Beelzebumon's wings sprout and unfurl from his back, feathers rippling in the breeze. He doesn't look back at her, although there's a hushed noise that can barely be described as a sigh.

"Leave Mugen in Sixth Level," is the short, detached answer that comes, so incredibly callous and out of character towards the only digimon Lilithmon knows the other demon lord truly cares for.

She can't help the cruel chuckle that slips past her curled lips, "Your selfishness eclipses that of Lucemon. I'm impressed. He loves you, and you would—"

Beelzebumon spins to face her, and his eyes are alight with a monstrous rage and brilliant clouds of purple miasma burst from the air around him. "Fuck you," he snarls, and is gone in a flurry of black feathers and streams of noxious energy.

She takes note of the apparent nerve that may forever remain raw and exposed, warily eyeing the caustic miasma lingering in the air.

Lilithmon walks out onto the balcony, her gait slow and relaxed once Beelzebumon is a shadowy figure growing smaller and smaller into the inky purple-black horizon. The sky of her plane glitters with mint green stars. As she gazes up at them, she smiles, fierce and cunning. Oh, the events she'll set in motion…

"Ah, it would be sorely disappointing if this was our last goodbye," Lilithmon says, wiping the filth from her dirtied arm, unable to resist giving the rare blood a taste. "I'll look forward to our next meeting, Sir Duelist of Finality."


	3. whole

_Omegamon's expression is an impenetrable wall of perfect stone, immovable and unyielding—unreadable—but his eyes, clear like the limitless sky, betray him utterly._

_They're resolute and filled with a presiding calmness, though such is simply a thin veil. In truth, they are terribly heavy and hauntingly grim, and speak of a fate Omegamon has already chosen._

_Tactimon sees his end through those eyes before he ever says a word._

_Finally, Omegamon asks as composed and with as much conviction as his façade would have Tactimon believe, "You are the one called Tactimon, are you not?"_

_It is a vague pleasantry at best._

_In another lifetime, he would've felt nothing but infinite admiration and overflowing honour at being addressed by the legendary leader of the esteemed heroes he'd so blindly idolized, once._

_Tactimon smiles bitterly at the thought as his steady hand grips the hilt of Jatetsufuujin-maru firmly._

_In this lifetime, he feels nothing but visceral contempt, overwhelming hatred, and a raw desire to see how far his lifetime of dedication to his purpose will take him against the greatest opponent he will ever face._

_To kill his heroes or be killed by them. This will be a worthy death, regardless of the outcome._

_"I am," Tactimon says, devoid of care, devoid of passion—devoid of **life** —and allows his readied sword to be his final answer._

_Omegamon's damning eyes narrow, then harden, and the Grey Sword slides free._

* * *

**whole**

.

.

.

When Omegamon returns, he's grateful the only thing awaiting him is Duftmon's critical yet silent gaze.

His inscrutable, ever-calculating green eyes often freeze others in place with the authority they carry alone, but Omegamon does not waver, instead offering a hint of a nod in acknowledgement. Nothing more. They share an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken aloud, yet the unyielding judgement brewing like darkening thunderclouds ready to unleash a tempest hangs heavily between them.

Omegamon breaks Duftmon's accusatory stare—feeling the laser-focused heat of it against his back—and keeps walking forward, his stride fluid and relaxed, back straight and broad shoulders held high. His immaculate white cape flows behind him, rippling with his dignified movements, the crimson interior that Dukemon so loves to compliment framing his equally flawless ivory armour. His gauntlets dematerialize in wisps of shimmering data, baring his gloved hands.

The sunset cascading in from the massive arching frosted glass windowpanes bathes Omegamon in golden light and every surface of his armour gleams, illuminating his silhouette in an ethereal glow that's truly fitting for the illustrious leader of the revered Royal Knights.

It seems like all of it is a façade today and Omegamon wishes for the surety of Dukemon's cheerful optimism as much as he wishes for the next sunrise (because tonight will be so dark, painfully dark, and for a second he questions his sanity and wonders if the sun will ever rise again).

Dukemon is off on his own mission, though, so there's no kind words or wise smiles waiting for him.

(And he  _will_ come back because a life without the crimson knight doesn't make  _any_  sense.)

The clank of Omegamon's footsteps on the porcelain floor echoes throughout the massive foyer and upwards as he begins to climb the immense, spiralling alabaster staircase that leaves the world behind and ascends into the realm of ghosts and gods.

The oppressive aura of Duftmon—who knows well enough not to follow, that his superior is sworn to keep no secrets—disappears as he marches onwards, and Omegamon is relieved when the only sounds he can hear are of his own making.

He doesn't have to pretend anymore.

His posture wilts, shoulders beginning to sag, though his pace never falters. Omegamon's footsteps grow heavier, the clanging noise growing louder in his ears like the blood that is similarly pounding in them.

_(A shaking hand drops the remains of a shattered sword engraved with runes that pulses with dying embers of light and colour and life, and a raspy whisper reaches his ears, "See ya in paradise, Omega—")_

He can still hear the awful, snarling buzz growling at the edges of his consciousness.

All he sees is white white white— _his wings were white, a cross between a leathery dragon's and a feathery angel's_ —the monochrome stairway to the edge of heaven passing before his unfocused cerulean blue eyes of Yggdrasil's making.

(What does Yggdrasil think? Would he ever be able to understand a god of such unknowable age and unfathomable intelligence?

A god that no longer deigns to speak to him.)

Omegamon, despite his impeccable, holy appearance, feels like he must be breaking apart at the seams; that his armour is creaking and groaning until it splinters and the long spidery cracks that have to be forming spreading until he falls apart and is nothing more than motes of dust on the blustery wind.

He is unbearably tired, and for the first time in many, many years, the weight of his age bears down on him. He is so incredibly, excruciatingly  _old_.

To think  _that_  had somehow survived the centuries and all of Yggdrasil's rewrites and resets. To see it wielded by one far too young to have ever known its origins. To suspect that it may one day be the cause of great calamity again.

(And yet he couldn't bring himself to kill the wielder of that accursed thing. What would his comrades think when they learned of such a decision?)

The barren walls of the staircase open into sudden brightness and the bite of a merciless wind borne of sheer altitude, and Omegamon blinks as if he's just woken up, eyes sharpening and regaining their clarity. He grips at the high metal rails barricading another pearly staircase leading up to the highest level of the castle, a singular diamond-shaped platform reaching into the sky, so close to touching Yggdrasil's white, crystalline branches.

He no longer feels like his head is bursting with intrusive thoughts and painful memories he'd rather not dwell on. The dreadful, hate-filled chittering skirting the edges of his mind disappears into nothingness, falling blessedly quiet.

Omegamon closes his eyes and inhales the cool air, using the sensation to further anchor himself to reality the way the cold, slick metal feels beneath his hands also does. He exhales, and it's reminiscent of draining poison from a wound. The turmoil churning in his chest settles into calmness, but he's left with the distinct feeling of emptiness, a hole—an endless void—that he cannot seem to fill.

A wry chuckle escapes him when he thinks of Dukemon's sage amber eyes that would be equal parts displeased and concerned, and the scolding he'd receive for that single thought, never mind what atrocities that cursed artifact had been capable of conjuring.

_("Is it truly alright to go on like this?"_

_His words are false. 'Is it really alright to move on like this?' is what he should've said._

" _Of course. He would want you to be happy. Do you really believe his final wish was for you to hold on to his ghost for the rest of your life?"_

_Dukemon's embrace is warm and it becomes all that matters.)_

Omegamon needs to think, wants to visit him, and steps out onto the stairway suspended above the voluminous clouds. Colossal, never-ending streams of data arc above and below him as he climbs higher, glimmering in greens and purples, though they remain mostly white as they coil and dance around the Great Tree.

The scent of flowers wafts through the crisp air and rose petals fall from the platform like a brief shower of rain. They float along the breeze and blow past him, red petals catching and swirling around his furiously billowing cloak.

Omegamon smiles, tired and melancholy, when he reaches the top at last and is standing between heaven and earth. A vast expanse of lush, blooming crimson roses stretches out nearly as far as the eye can see, clustered together so tightly it's difficult to walk without stepping on them. Dew droplets cling to some, unaffected by the cold, and fresh water collects in the plush folds of others, spilling down to coat the thorny stems.

At the center of it all, an intricate statue sits in complete silence and tranquility, so lifelike in its design with no detail spared, waiting. His beloved friend is always waiting for him here, sightless eyes forever open, forever welcoming him home.

"It's been some time, hasn't it, Imperialdramon…" Omegamon murmurs to the statue as he approaches it, looking up into the face that is a perfect rendition of the founder of the Royal Knights in his prime. His eyes, though they are set in stone, are alive with fire and the fierce pride he never let go of even in death.

He runs his hand down the smooth sword, whole and perfect, fingers tracing the engravings, and deeply wishes he could see the glorious blade and its champion lead them to an honourable victory just one more time.

(It's no secret he will love Imperialdramon for the rest of his days, and Dukemon, eternally understanding and benevolent Dukemon, will never begrudge him for it.

The guilt threatens to drown him in his grief-laden, rock-bottom moments.)

"I saw his face again today," Omegamon admits, swallowing the hot shame that rises like bile in his throat. The image of a battered, defeated warrior on his hands and knees, fractured but not broken, with yellow eyes burning holes in his soul— _daring_  him to do it—flashes through his mind.

_("Filth, you have the nerve to raise your sword against me? Against Lord Bagramon? What an insult," he says coldly, the malevolence in his voice enough to bring lesser digimon cowering to their knees. "Lay down your sword and perhaps I won't leave you a shattered, empty husk begging for death at my feet.")_

Beneath the self-protective coat of darkness and raw arrogance, Omegamon saw that the flames blazing in his soul were not yet black nor evil unlike his predecessor.

He chose to let him live.

He wasn't able to bring himself to wreak a vengeance upon that new Tactimon, for all his faults, who could still be considered unknowing and innocent. "I saw that sword again today, and I didn't… no, I  _couldn't_  kill him. I'm—"

The apology gets caught in his throat and he can't force it out no matter what he does. He knows what it's like for fate to inflict an irreversible judgement—a painful curse.

"You still saw the good in that digimon?"

Omegamon subconsciously retakes his authoritative state upon hearing RhodoKnightmon's intrigued question, eyes lingering on Imperialdramon's form, feeling foolish for not sensing the other knight's presence.

"I did," he replies evenly, because he's at least secure in that decision. He refuses to allow shame and old hurt to dictate his life and the lives of those who depend on him.

_Then, why can't you treat Dukemon in the same manner?_

Omegamon isn't sure how to answer himself, so he turns to RhodoKnightmon, who's sauntered out from behind one of the high stone walls separating the layers of roses. "Do you object?" he asks, genuinely curious about the younger Royal Knight's answer. He's very aware RhodoKnightmon's dramatic diva act is exactly that, and the only kindness to be found in him is with his fellow knights and friends.

RhodoKnightmon hums, the sound one of distaste. If anything, he's brutally honest with Omegamon. "I don't object, per se. I will not defy your will, however…" he trails off, tapping a shining pink finger against his mouthplate. "You bested him with ease, surely, and he's been a troublesome individual for years. I would've dealt with him," RhodoKnightmon says with a confidence and deadly calm that speaks volumes, crossing his arms as he comes to Omegamon's side.

"I see," Omegamon replies, gently cupping one of the white roses RhodoKnightmon has artfully grown around the statue in tribute. "I understand your concerns. I will—"

"With all due respect, you didn't come here to trade views on how best to accomplish our duties," RhodoKnightmon interrupts, his voice a rare brand of solemn, setting carefully picked roses at their founder's feet. He looks back and forth between Omegamon and Imperialdramon with deliberate slowness, and after a pause, he muses thoughtfully, "Sir Imperialdramon must have been quite a man."

Omegamon nearly chokes on his spit, but keeps his composure, offering the shorter knight an odd glance. RhodoKnightmon is certainly not one to hide his preferences, but this is…

"I… suppose one could say that," he says awkwardly, clearing his throat, "however, RhodoKnightmon… that kind of subject is… inappropriate,  _at best_." Their relationship hadn't been readily apparent, so Omegamon wonders in bewilderment which of the senior members let it slip.

RhodoKnightmon tilts his head as another flourish of rose petals sweeps by before understanding dawns on him and he laughs, the sound rich and somehow elegant.

"My dear Omegamon, while I'm quite sure Sir Imperialdramon was indeed a high-calibre stud, I was referring to his qualities as a friend and fellow knight to have left such an impression on you," RhodoKnightmon explains, greatly amused at the misunderstanding—that one of his serious and sincere attempts at camaraderie has been misconstrued to such a degree.

Omegamon feels heated embarrassment spread across his face. Of course, it's not in neither Dukemon's nor Craniamon's personalities to blatantly spread secrets. "I—"

"Besides," RhodoKnightmon continues conspiratorially, gold ribbons twitching in barely repressed glee, "you and Dukemon are an item, no?"

At the words, Omegamon's heart jumps in his chest and a warmth and lightness very different from embarrassment diffuses throughout his body.

He doesn't immediately give the younger knight a response. He simply looks out into the evening, beholding the magnificence of the setting sun as it paints the sky and the sparse clouds that decorate it in blazing oranges, sunflower yellows, smattered with magentas and violets and inky blues of the coming twilight.

It's supremely beautiful; he's glad to share it with his friend and wishes for Dukemon's swift return. Omegamon realizes he no longer feels particularly burdened, though he knows he will soon have to inform his comrades of the day's events.

He pulls away from the statue, granting Imperialdramon a dip of his head. He smiles, and there's no sadness or grief for someone lost long ago.

"Thank you, my friend," Omegamon says in gratitude, leaning in to briefly touch RhodoKnightmon's arm. His serene eyes reflect the sunset and he radiates his usual collected and peaceful aura that his fellows are most familiar with.

"Oh?" RhodoKnightmon drawls with a wink, and Omegamon can't tell if he'd planned the whole thing from the start. Frankly, he's not surprised at the thought; the young knight is exceedingly clever and devious like that.

_Whole, it's a nice word,_  Omegamon thinks as they turn from the statue to join the others back inside.

It's true that Imperialdramon's death left a hole, and perhaps the hole will always exist alongside the memories they made together, but Omegamon no longer feels like that hole is as large as it once was.

His cause, his goals, and his friends make him whole. His Royal Knights make him whole. Dukemon makes him whole.

"By the way," Omegamon mutters wryly as they begin to descend the staircase leading back into the castle, "I don't appreciate gossip."

RhodoKnightmon gasps dramatically in mock offense, "Me? Gossip?  _Really_ , Omegamon, you and Dukemon make it so obvious, anyway. Where's the fun in that?"

Omegamon casts him a sidelong stare, eyes twinkling with amusement, "Well, I suppose you're right."

"Aren't I always?" RhodoKnightmon returns haughtily, clapping him on the shoulder and giving a much more exaggerated wink.

_("And, I, Dukemon, say that we'll always be here for you, so stop moping," Dukemon says in jest, pressing their foreheads together. His eyes crinkle in an adorable smile. "I'll always be here for you," he whispers softly.)_

Omegamon is glad that Dukemon is always right.


	4. old friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by and dedicated to my friend, Diet Pepsi Tim.

**old friends**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Bii slammed his chin down on the ornate glass table, uncaring despite the spidery cracks spreading from the impact point. He glared pointedly into the distance—though he appeared a pouty child rather than a terrifying demon lord—refusing to make eye contact with Rosemon.

"It was a compliment," Rosemon said mildly, making a grand, sweeping gesture to Tactimon. The luminescent blossom pink petals of her cape cradled her floating body as she lounged on naught but air, lips curving upwards in an amused smirk.

His burning eyes briefly flitted to the illustrious monarch before fixing themselves back onto something seen only by himself. "You  _implied_ ," Bii ground out, body sagging in defeat. His tail most definitely didn't halt its pendulous, agitated back and forth.

Tactimon had remained silent for the better part of their interactions, instead keen to observe his partner and the queen's dynamic. So few held Bii's esteem and sincere friendship. Even fewer he allowed to tease him, though if he was entirely honest with himself…

"It was a compliment," Tactimon stated, uncrossing his tense arms to ruffle Bii's forever messy hair.

Bii groaned and slammed his face further into the table, mask nearly shattering it.

Rosemon gave a most ladylike chuckle, the melodious sound carrying more than a hint of deviousness. "It's true, my dear, and you see?" She waved her hand, the black vines around her white-gloved hand uncoiling to gesticulate with as much grace and excitement as their host.

Tactimon's hand stilled atop Bii's head and he stared at her, torn between a similar defeat and intrigue. Understanding dawned on him; of course such a digimon was held in high esteem by Bii—she seemed utterly capable of outplaying one of the greatest of a handful capable of glimpsing the future.

"…It was a compliment," Tactimon reiterated, finally regarding Rosemon with something akin to respect.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Bii growled in annoyance into the ruined glass. His tail gradually slowed and he sighed. "Fine, you're right. Happy now?" He glanced up at her, mirth slowly replacing the fiery ire in his glittering eyes.

Rosemon nodded decisively, her vines rippling in agreement. "Of course. You're hardly upset with each other now." She grinned wryly, rolling onto her side, supporting her chin on the flat tops of her interlaced fingers—the very epitome of familial smug, a meddlesome aunt proved right.

"You scheming—" Bii dissolved into laughter, pulling his arms around his face in a futile attempt to hide his reaction.

Tactimon gave him a final pat, leaning in close to whisper-ask, "Is her demeanour usually in a perpetual state of…  _this_?"

"Indeed," Rosemon answered for him, startling Tactimon. "Still, you  _are_ the best man Bii's ever brought to meet me."

Tactimon forced himself to settle, and shook his head and scoffed, amusement and undercurrents of affection easily winning out over his scorn. "I am the  _only_ man he's ever brought to meet you…  _Your Majesty_."

"Oh my, and here I've been told you've no sense of humour. Such biting sarcasm," Rosemon laughed, delighted with her new acquaintance. "It's no wonder my Rhodo likes you so much."

"Naturally," an equally melodious male voiced chimed in with a delight simultaneously not so different from Rosemon's yet far from anything that would placate Tactimon's grudge and ungodly wrath.

The silence that filled the lush green clearing blooming with oh-so-fragile flowers—that were unlikley to survive—was deafening.

Bii closed his eyes and muttered, " _Shit_."


	5. always

**always**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Dukemon didn't take peace for granted, nor did he mistake calm for it.

The sky blended together where the rift of day and night met each other, rich magentas and oranges enmeshing with the inky violet of the night. The sun still glimmered on the horizon like a brilliant flame while the stars flickered into existence on the opposite side of the sky and the faint moon peeked out from behind wisps of clouds.

Leaning against the pearly railing of his balcony with his arms crossed, Dukemon gazed out into the silent twilight, contemplative. A light breeze fluttered through his cape and sent the elegant length of the hair extending from his helmet streaming behind him like a silvery ribbon.

_("You can't save everyone, Red," Bii says, pity and grim acceptance colouring his decisive tone, and looks away as if the knight won't see the guilt in his eyes._

_Despite what others may think, Dukemon isn't naïve. He knows how vast the task that lies before him is better than anyone else, after all._

_He claps the demon lord on the shoulder and smiles. "Have more faith in me, my friend."_

_Nothing will stop him from trying.)_

Quiet moments weren't uncommon in the tranquil haven Yggdrasil had shaped long ago, but the comfort that usually accompanied them was becoming lost to him. The stability of the Digital World was shifting again, and the Royal Knights alone were afforded the luxury of faux-peace, a thing leaving Dukemon more and more uneasy as the days passed.

He needed to—

"Dukemon?" Omegamon's soft voice snapped him out of his troubled musings. No matter the state of the world, Omegamon's love would forever be capable of inspiring the truest contentment in his soul and quieting the unrest in his mind.

Dukemon straightened and turned, a sunny smile immediately lighting his features. "Good evening, Omega… mon…" he trailed off in confusion and amusement when he took in his beloved's appearance.

The other knight stood in the entrance to the balcony tall and proud as he always did, yet his blue eyes were filled with an uncharacteristic shyness. Dukemon found his expression exceedingly adorable and withheld fond chuckles at what Omegamon had in store for him, watching him with patient, curious eyes.

Omegamon's cape was wrapped tightly around the entirety of him in an utterly hilarious fashion, as if he was some sort of vampire digimon, with only the sharp yellow points of his feet sticking out. Even his bulkier pauldrons were covered and stuck up awkwardly through the white material.

Something was clearly stuffed beneath his cape judging by the massive, crinkled bulge that made his broad chest look even broader and puffed out the slimness of his waist.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?" Omegamon asked suddenly, as if he'd sensed something was amiss. A slight frown cut through his sheepish demeanour as he looked over Dukemon with concern.

"Never," Dukemon replied warmly, an affectionate grin spreading across his face. He approached Omegamon and leaned in to give him a gentle peck, taking care not to disturb whatever was hidden beneath his cape. "I do believe I needed the distraction." He nuzzled Omegamon's cheek, who gladly returned the gesture with a pleased rumble that Dukemon felt more than heard. "And this is…?" His hand hovered over the strange bulge.

Omegamon laughed, the sound deep and comforting, and nodded for the intrigued Dukemon to stand back.

"It's… better if I just show you," he said, and the sheepish look returned. Omegamon shook his head at what he knew to surely be a strange display on his part. A blush crept across his cheeks as Dukemon stared at him intently, and he pulled his cape tighter around him in preparation for his little show.

Omegamon stood up straight and squared his shoulders resolutely, allowed a beat of silence to pass, then flung his cape open in a grand, dramatic flourish. The motion was so powerful it sent rose petals flying on gusts of wind into the evening air in spirals around them.

With his cape no longer stifling them, the tremendously large bouquet of fully bloomed, perfectly shaped red and white roses sprang forth, nearly eclipsing Omegamon's head from view. Metallic crimson and shiny white paper folded in an intricate, almost origami manner held them together, tied off with an ivory ribbon that was reminiscent of Dukemon's hair.

Without a second thought and close to subconsciously, Dukemon's sharp eyes easily counted out the far smaller amount of velvety white roses, and with a start that shocked him to his core, realized they numbered the exact amount of years he and Omegamon had been together.

In that moment, it felt like the world stood still.

"Omegamon…" Dukemon exhaled shakily, drawing in a sharp breath that remained stuck at the back of his throat. "This is… I…" The more he tried, the rougher his words grew and he fell into stunned silence, unable to move his painfully wide eyes from the sight before him. He blinked slowly, hazily, as though Omegamon was a mirage and would disappear with each increasingly pronounced blink.

He'd never been faced with such an act of sheer beauty and absolute love. He knew Omegamon loved him without a doubt, but this— _this_  went beyond anything anyone had done for him throughout his life. And Omegamon—clever, kind, endlessly thoughtful Omegamon—of course he  _knew_. A hint of a laugh caught in his chest.

"Dukemon…?" Omegamon called to him. He lowered the bouquet so his head was visible and beckoned the crimson knight forward, worry growing in his unsure expression. "Come here," he said gently, extending his hand.

"You…" Dukemon began, not quite trusting himself to speak, "you can see right through me, can't you?" He laughed quietly to himself, amber eyes brightening and creasing in an understanding smile. He took a step towards Omegamon, who placed the flowers aside and sighed deeply, the tension bleeding from his form.

"Come here," he repeated, and it sounded like both an exhausted order and a desperate plea. He held his arms out, looking longingly into Dukemon's loving eyes.

Dukemon's next step turned into a lunge and he threw himself into Omegamon's embrace, petals and their respective capes swirling around them on the breeze as Omegamon used the momentum to spin them.

"I love you," Dukemon said breathlessly as they slowed, and pulled Omegamon into a passionate kiss before the other knight could reply. Omegamon returned the kiss with equal passion, looping an arm around Dukemon's waist to press himself closer. His other hand fell to Dukemon's hip to thread their legs together. Dukemon eagerly followed suit, allowing the aggressive fire he kept walled away in his digicore to reign for a few seconds. The hand that caressed Omegamon's trim waist slid lower, causing Omegamon to make a muffled noise that sounded very much like a laugh crossed with a groan.

Dukemon released his hold on the back of Omegamon's neck when he realized exactly what he was doing in a semi-public area. A vibrant blush coloured his face, though he shot the snickering Omegamon a rare heated look that was half annoyed and half…  _something_ that was better suited in private.

"I swear…" Omegamon mumbled, soft laughter shaking his shoulders as he buried his face in Dukemon's neck.

Dukemon gave a barely imperceptible chuckle and nuzzled into the crook of Omegamon's neck, breathing in his partner's scent. He closed his eyes and simply enjoyed the feeling of their closeness.

"Thank you," Dukemon murmured, cradling the back of Omegamon's head.

" _Thank you_ ," Omegamon echoed, bordering on rebuttal. His hold on Dukemon tightened, his words rife with heavy emotion. "Thank you for having faith in me when I didn't have faith in myself. Thank you for loving me when I couldn't love myself. I needed you. After—"

"Hush." Dukemon pulled back to look into Omegamon's grateful eyes, tenderly running his fingers down the other knight's face. "I needed you, too," he admitted, nudging their foreheads together.

Rumbling laughter rolled through Omegamon's chest and he covered Dukemon's hand with his own. "So, I'm your knight in shining armour, then?" he whispered playfully, blue eyes glowing in the dark of the night.  _Yes, that's really what your lame humour sounds like,_  they seemed to say.

But Dukemon found no humour in it, nor did he find it untrue.

"You are," he whispered back, moving his face closer to kiss Omegamon again. "Always."

Omegamon stopped him for what would be the final time, giving the hand cupping his cheek a firm squeeze. "I love you, Dukemon. Always."

Perhaps the world didn't stand still, but it felt like it spun on its axis for them alone.


	6. all that glitters

**all that glitters**

**.**

**.**

**.**

As soon as Tactimon stepped through the doorway, he understood with a sense of intense grimness that something had gone deeply awry while he'd been away.

The first thing he noticed was that there was a warm, spicy scent on the air, touched with a bare hint of a flowery perfume that was so minute he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

For whatever reason, it left him with a growing sense of dull dread.

His eyebrows drew together when a sound came to his ears.

Music, flamboyant yet slow and inviting, echoed throughout his quarters, pleasing enough in its own right that Tactimon wasn't immediately put off, though his instincts told him to just walk out and spare himself the grief.

Tactimon had no doubt Beelzebumon was behind the display that surely awaited him. Sighing internally, he knew there was no choice but to go forward, or else he'd simply be facing it again another day.

With a great care and gentleness he reserved for his sword alone, Tactimon returned Jatetsufuujin-maru to its resting place on the mantel above the fireplace and turned to give a hard stare to the increasingly ominous, dark hallway the music was emanating from.

Something iridescent on the hardwood caught his eye.

Tactimon stepped away from the mantel, giving the fine, jewel-toned dust a wide berth as he circled it like a predator, squinting in an attempt to discern what it was.

It was too dark.

He edged closer, the dimly lit room making it incredibly difficult to see. It didn't appear hazardous and Beelzebumon wasn't stupid enough to bring anything explosive that wasn't his physical self inside the house anymore. He bent down, eyeing it critically, and cautiously reached to press a gloved finger to it—

Tactimon realized what it was before his fate was sealed. Oh, Yggdrasil,  _no_. He pulled his hand back as though he'd been burned, dumbstruck and angered by its mere presence.

Glitter, it was undeniably  _glitter_ , glimmering various shades of lustrous crimson, gaudy hot pink, and blinding silver in the dangerous, evil way only such a reviled substance was able.

Fury flooded through Tactimon's veins and he felt a rising urge to re-arm himself in order to unleash several Shi-no-Tachis— _no_ , a Hoshiwari was undoubtedly warranted here. Nothing short of ultimate and perfect destruction was going to cleanse his meticulously kept house of the devastating plague it'd become infested with.

Glitter was truly  _impossible_  to clean. No matter what he did, no matter how he did it, he'd be finding the damned stuff  _everywhere_ , in all of his things, all over himself, all over Beelzebumon— _nobody_  and  _nothing_  would be spared its carnage—for long months, maybe years—

_Eternity,_  Tactimon thought to himself as the black flames of hatred raged in his heart, struggling to keep his composure in the face of such blatant idiocy and utter disrespect.

Beelzebumon had gone  _too far_  this time.

He flipped on a light-switch, intent on avoiding what he could—though he knew he was living on borrowed time, as it were—and on strangling the life of out of the demon lord when he found him, but the fluorescence revealed an even greater horror he couldn't have allowed himself to imagine.

It was  _everywhere_.

Tactimon had no choice but to close his eyes against the onslaught of the sheer radiance of it, the lot of it glittering like the blinding sea reflecting the absolute might of the sun.  _Piles_  of multi-coloured glitter trailed down the hallway and designs of what looked like hearts were smeared on the walls. There was also an overkill amount of fat red rose petals scattered throughout the hallway, almost like Beelzebumon couldn't decide which was the better option. Tactimon knew better, though; this had been a balancing act—an attempted and completely failed one—and a calculated effort.

Tactimon turned off the light and stood in the desolate darkness that mirrored his feelings, unable to contemplate the atrocity Beelzebumon had committed in the name of  _love_.

"I have made a grave miscalculation," Tactimon said to the hallway, seething, as if his desecrated home understood his pain.

Somehow, Beelzebumon, the simpleton that he was, had managed to worm his way into Tactimon's guarded heart against all logic and defying all reason. Caring for Beelzebumon served no purpose whatsoever, yet clearly some irrational part of him did. What foolishness he had allowed himself to indulge in.

What folly he had brought upon himself, he thought, knowing he only had himself to blame.

It was then that the music made itself known again. It grew louder, and the singer began cooing in a rich, sensuous voice, and the lyrics rendered Tactimon speechless. They were so unnecessarily  _vulgar_ , hardly something Beelzebumon would've picked out himself—

Then, it all clicked, and the puzzle pieces slid together.

In that moment, Tactimon knew exactly what had transpired in his absence. He added two names to the top of his hit list, but unfortunately brutal executions would have to wait. He needed to address the more immediate issue.

Gritting his teeth, Tactimon stormed through the glitter, all of his skin itching and burning beneath his armour. He refused to think about the damage his actual armour was incurring.

(He would shine like an unparalleled fabulously gay discoball for a long time to come, but would make untold doom and suffering synonymous with the word 'glitter' and all who dared to comment on it.)

He grabbed the door handle and flung it open, streams of glitter and flower petals exploding through the air around him in what looked like celebratory glee.

"Beelzebum—" Tactimon stopped dead when he saw what lay beyond the threshold as the overly sexual song reached its painful, cringe-inducing crescendo.

The lights were out, however his bedroom was lit with a myriad of dark red, scented candles, each tiny flame licking at the air and illuminating the perversity within.

There were countless rose petals strewn about the room, along with actual numerous bouquets of lush, blooming red roses themselves, placed in bundles and artfully tied with shimmering pink ribbons. The glitter appeared to have been stenciled in intricate…  _phallic_ designs on the walls and floor, totally unlike the bomb site of the hallway. The nightstands that had once sat at each side of the bed had been replaced with gigantic stalagmite-shaped diamonds that nearly reached the tall ceiling, sharp points glittering dangerously. At the foot of the bed sat a silver tray cluttered with various bottles.

Tactimon brought his stunned eyes to the perpetrator of the entire ridiculous production, who was lounging across the now satiny royal purple bedspread with a single rose between his teeth, posed in what he had to guess Beelzebumon thought was a seductive position. And maybe, just  _maybe_ , Tactimon would've found it appealing if not for the demon lord's attire—calling the single article that was  _generous_ —which consisted of a  _tiny_  piece of tight leather lingerie adorned with frilly black lace. Black satin straps extending from the… undergarment—could it even be called  _that_?—attached to sheer, lace-topped stockings, and there was a single matching satin bow tied around the end of his tail. Around his wrists were similarly frilly lace cuffs and he wore a choker that matched his… crotch.

Tactimon stared at the spectacle laid out before him, wishing it was a hallucination.

Beelzebumon lay on his side, head propped up on an arm, the other resting along his body, hand resting on his cocked hip. His legs were splayed for maximum lewdness, censored by the utterly bizarre placement of a rose bouquet, and his tail rippled in slow, fluid motions that reminded Tactimon of a Bastemon preparing to devour their prey. To top the image off, his partner's blue skin was shining with a sheen of oil and coated in glitter that clashed terribly with his skin tone.

"So?" Beelzebumon asked proudly, a sultry smirk showing off his fangs. His hair practically glowed with the amount of glitter in it. "Awesome welcome home, right?"

"I see you've taken RhodoKnightmon's advice," was all Tactimon was capable of saying, and was impressed with how even he managed to make the words sound. "….And Blastmon's," he added with a deadly calm, brushing a handful of glitter off one of his pauldrons.

"Aww," Beelzebumon pouted, rolling over onto his stomach—and indeed the garment he was wearing was even smaller than Tactimon had previously estimated. His tail flicked in annoyance, plush bow swishing with it. "Was it  _that_  obvious? I mean,"—he gestured at the overabundance of roses and glitter—"I tried to make it my own, y'know?"

Tactimon briefly turned to inspect one of the phallic stencils. "In that regard, you're correct. RhodoKnightmon might've forgone the artistry for something more straight-forward."

"Are you using contractions?" Beelzebumon frowned and sat up on his heels, losing his bouquet censorship bar in the process. His  _I am probably about to be murdered_  alarm was beginning to go off, but his brain wasn't operating on a higher level. Nope, he was stuck on the possibility of tapping that fine, fine Tactimon ass.

Or on getting tapped. He wasn't picky about it.

"I suppose so," Tactimon replied, walking over to inspect the bottles the demon lord had amassed, and fought the overwhelming urge to shake his head (and throw them out of the window, but he would not admit that to himself). The majority of them were different types of alcohol and the rest had various sexual purposes.

Tactimon rarely drank, but after the last incident with Beelzebumon, Lilithmon, and Dukemon, he'd sworn off partaking entirely.

"Not gonna lie," Beelzebumon began, stroking his chin as he contemplated the glitter, smearing said substance across the Digital Hazard symbol there, "I wasn't sure about the glitter at first." He slid his arms around Tactimon's neck, pulling him in close to press glittery kisses to his faceplate.

"At first," Tactimon repeated, edging into an unnerving pleasant, unable to stop his fingers from twitching slightly when Beelzebumon slid the rose from his mouth down the front of his chestplate.

"Yeah!" The demon lord gave a sunny grin, mistaking Tactimon's disbelief fueled rage for genuine enjoyment. "Blastmon was all 'diamonds are better to prove true love, you plebeian,' but damn, as if there was any way I was gonna get any of his crap out of Sixth Level, so he said to use glitter as a substitute if I was that 'base.' Heh, you know how he is." Beelzebumon shrugged, tail slithering to wrap around Tactimon's leg possessively. "What can I say, it grew on me."

"I can see that," Tactimon said, still as an immovable statue. "And RhodoKnightmon?" He  _needed_  to know of that cretin's involvement so he could mete out punishment accordingly.

"Man, I was iffy about that, too," Beelzebumon chuckled while removing Tactimon's cape, unknowingly sealing his fate. "He pulled through in the end, though, don'tcha think? Couldn't have created this masterpiece without his help." He attempted to nuzzle at Tactimon's neck, not put off by the sheer amount of armour making the action strange and close to impossible.

The word 'masterpiece' echoed through Tactimon's skull, reaching a deafening cacophony of stupidity as Beelzebumon went on about his newest attempt in seduction quite happily, ignorant to what was about to happen.

"But, c'mon—babe, you don't really wanna talk arts and crafts all night," Beelzebumon purred, voice lowering and becoming wicked as he ran his natural claws over Tactimon's chest lightly. "Why don't we—"

"At what point did you consider this a good idea?" Tactimon interrupted, tone steely and utterly furious, gripping the hand that had bravely dared to venture to where he allowed very few with most of the strength he possessed.

It was at this moment that the fourth wall broke, and Morgan Freeman's voice narrated that Beelzebumon knew he had fucked up.

"Uh," the demon lord articulated intelligently, unwilling to move; survival instincts dictated the less he moved, the less Tactimon was willing to give chase. That belief, however, was less than smart and hadn't yielded results since the first time he'd used it.

"So... you don't want to…" Beelzebumon couldn't help but ask, after all, he'd put serious time and effort into the whole shebang. If there was even a slim chance Tactimon was down for it, well…

"Kill me," Tactimon exhaled under his breath, before turning the entirety of his all-encompassing fury on Beelzebumon.

* * *

A giant purple explosion erupted on the horizon, lighting up the dark night and vaporizing all it touched.

"That didn't look good," Blastmon said, rumbling voice heavy with disdain. "I  _told_  him to use real diamonds, but  _nooo_ , and now  _look_." He flung a massive, pointed finger in the direction of what had to be a Shi-no-Tachi, rolling his eyes in a dramatic fashion. "Bii is an  _idiot_ ," he sniffed imperiously, uncaring that it was his superior he was referring to.

RhodoKnightmon didn't look up from filing and buffing the chrome digizoid of his nails, humming a lilting tune to himself. "Don't be silly, my dear! That's merely what true love looks like," the glamourous pink knight enunciated, extending his hand to admire the perfect, sparkling nails of his armour.

"Very nice!" Blastmon commented with sincerity, although envious that RhodoKnightmon constantly one-upped him. One day…

"Of course, surely you expect no less of me," RhodoKnightmon replied smoothly, winking at Blastmon. He uncrossed his legs and stood to stretch, glittering golden ribbons rippling with the motion. "Now, our job here is done. Let us move on to something more…  _entertaining_ ," he waved Blastmon forward, his deep laugh an enchanting sound.

"…Really?" Blastmon asked, equal parts amusement and doubt, raising a brow at the ongoing explosion rocking the surrounding land.

"Not our problem," RhodoKnightmon said dismissively and opened a digital gate that looked out onto the eternally bright Capitol. "Besides," he murmured, and for a second that lasted too long, Blastmon saw the utterly terrifying and absolute true beauty of RhodoKnightmon, "Dukemon owes me for what happened last time!" he finished with his usual flourish, gliding through the gate.

RhodoKnightmon truly was a mystery, a gem and fellow rival so glorious even Blastmon couldn't compare, but that certainly didn't mean he was giving up. No, in fact, all it did was make his resolve that much stronger, made his heart pound that much faster. One day, he would emerge victorious over RhodoKnightmon!

Ahh, but now was not the time for it. Blastmon brought a hand to his chest, gazing passionately at the pink knight he both admired and harboured intense jealousy over.

"If you say so," Blastmon agreed with the Royal Knight, following him through the gate.

But what had he meant by entertainment, exactly?


	7. justice supreme

**justice supreme**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Magnamon's blue ears twitched violently, his sixth sense for Ulforce's shenanigans pinging like an electrostatic shock. He shut his eyes briefly, unwilling to facepalm or attempt to pinch the bridge of his nose (his armour made this close to impossible, but it certainly didn't stop him from trying). No, the bigger his reaction, the more ridiculous his partner's actions would become.

Yggdrasil in the kernel, it was as if he was starring in a horror movie, unable to turn around without great threat to his wellbeing.

Magnamon held in a sigh.

Somewhere across the library, Craniamon snorted, the hoarse sound torn between stale amusement and tired resignation. "No fountains this time…" the elder knight's intense voice carried like a whisper of wind through the stacks, ever the contradiction to himself.

True enough. Magnamon rolled his eyes at the memory, a traitorous smile threatening to crack his stern demeanour. He spun on the tips of his toes, hovering slightly—and his eyes widened to a comical extent, stifling a myriad of emotions at the sight of Ulforce.

UlforceVeedramon, true to form and all things—well,  _himself_ —had his body arranged into an incredibly dynamic action hero pose. Naturally, he'd taken it to the highest level possible, the most outrageous and over the top as he could, his arms, legs, and torso all contorted for maximum…  _shock factor_? Magnamon guessed, and "heroism," he supposed. His blue wings were flared out behind him, setting the backdrop, so to speak. His armour didn't hurt the act, on the contrary, it cemented it and his (alarmingly) glowing V Bracelets only fed into the image.

No wonder their lord had long since rid their castle of cable and all things sentai.

Foregoing the why momentarily—and perhaps the 'how' because, ahem,  _flexibility reasons_  he'd yet to see in action—Magnamon affected a slight frown, eyes narrowing in confusion and annoyance at Ulforce.

"Stop posing like…  _that_ ," Magnamon ordered flatly, his amber, burgundy-ringed eyes pointedly moving from side to side, his unspoken  _why the hell are you doing this in the library, of all places?_  clear as day.

Ulforce didn't move an inch, but his eyes glinted with mischief and a load of glee so massive Magnamon doubted the grand Empress Examon could shoulder it.

"I can't, Goldie," he said, flexing his wings and rippling his muscles, proud as a peacock(mon…? The golden knight didn't know what to make of that). In a whirlwind of movement Magnamon couldn't follow, Ulforce rearranged himself into another heavily sentai-inspired pose. Papers and books flew in all directions, some caught up in the speed demon's tornado of wind, while stacks fell over in chaotic, booming crashes.

"I'm a  _gay_ gent of justice!" Ulforce proclaimed loudly, just as theatrical and enthusiastic as all the heroes he dearly loved watching, a tremendous grin splitting his face.

Something slammed abruptly and the deliberate, thunderous clank of Craniamon's terrifying footsteps rang out through the now annihilated east wing of the library.

"…A dead gaygent of justice, blue boy," Magnamon stated dryly, peeling off a piece of paper stuck to his helmet.

Ulforce paled, however minutely. "It wasn't even his office!" he lamented dramatically, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead. "Save me, Sir Hero?" he suggested, tone flippant, though one of his brows raised in its characteristic nervousness. "The greatest hero I know?" he quickly added the louder Craniamon's wrathful footsteps grew. "A far more legendary hero than,  _I_ , UlforceVee—"

"Shut up, gaygent of justice," Magnamon muttered, chuckling under his breath. He pulled Ulforce down by his chin, staring directly into his partner's eyes with a fire reserved for the blue knight alone. "Show me some of those…  _moves_ , and I'll consider it. You've been holding out on me."

Ulforce's jaw worked, rendered speechless for less than a second before his mischievous grin returned with greater fervour.

"You got it, my saviour, my light, my love," he replied in turn, grasping Magnamon's hand in a gentlemanly fashion to give his beloved's knuckles a chivalrous kiss.

"I better be." Magnamon yanked him forward to give him a heated kiss, keenly aware of the scant time they had to escape. Speaking to Craniamon later served him just as well.

Craniamon rounded the corner as Ulforce tucked Magnamon into the crook of his arm and was gone in another blast of wind that nearly knocked him off his feet. He hmphed to himself upon further inspecting the carnage and shook his head. Even so, he thought, Magnamon's debates regarding Ulforce's silliness were…  _engaging_  enough to let this go… for now.

Still… 'Gaygent of justice?'

Craniamon couldn't help the soft laughter that followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a wacky tumlr prompt:
> 
> "Stop POSING LIKE THAT."
> 
> "I can't. I'm a GAYGENT OF JUSTICE!"


	8. target acquired

**target acquired**

**.**

**.**

**.**

"Hey, babe!"

Tactimon flinched at the sudden, obnoxiously loud greeting, sighing in vague annoyance when Beelzebumon planted his chin on his shoulder.

"Your sense of self-preservation remains…  _questionable_ ," Tactimon said sternly, undercurrents of grudging affection tempering his usual icy demeanour. Regardless, he reached up to ruffle the demon lord's messy hair.

Beelzebumon's mischievous smirk turned into one of contentment with the temporary distraction. He made a pleased sound, pressing up into Tactimon's hand.

His goal could wait in favour of head pats… and it certainly didn't hurt his act.

"Aww, y'feel guilty about last time?" Beelzebumon chuckled, audibly rumbling with low growls as his partner continued to pet his head. "Trust me, it hurt the floor way more than it hurt me."

Tactimon scoffed, heavily displeased at the mention of the destruction of their previous flooring.

"Idiot," he murmured, more fondly than he intended, and began to run his fingers down Beelzebumon's mask to his bare face, entirely missing the way the demon lord's eyes regained an evil gleam he hadn't seen from behind. "The fact that you purr is—" Tactimon cut himself off abruptly when a pair of clawed hands firmly gripped at his hips, squeezing generous handfuls.

" _Nice_ ," Beelzebumon said to himself, grinning wickedly. One of his hands strayed to Tactimon's thigh, giving it equally loving treatment.

Tactimon blinked, utterly startled and yet not surprised in the least. "It appears I was incorrect," he said evenly after a moment, "your sense of self-preservation is  _less_  than questionable." A terrifying calmness slowly filled the room, the prelude to the oncoming storm.

The performance was just as entertaining as the game, after all.

"Nah, it doesn't exist," Beelzebumon replied in delight, pressing a quick peck to Tactimon's faceplate while making sure to get a final hefty squeeze in. Before turning on his heel to start the inevitable chase and spar that would follow, he whispered deviously and with great pleasure, " _Extra thick_ , babe."

"Extra  _what_?" Tactimon repeated with a raised brow, spinning swiftly to attempt to pin his wholly ridiculous partner.

Beelzebumon's tail playfully tapped Tactimon's ass in a mock slap, and with that, the demon lord promptly disappeared in a blur, shouting over his shoulder, "Extra thick!"

Extra… thick…?

Tactimon stared at the empty space, contemplating for the umpteenth time why he'd bothered in the first place. Still… it would be remiss not to pursue, Tactimon thought, a single amused  _hmph_  carrying through the room as he strode out.

Only when he was outside, scanning the area with hawk-like precision did he notice the tiny piece of paper caught on his pauldron. Frowning, he pulled what immediately appeared to be a note out, examining it between his finger and thumb.

It simply read,  _We'll bang, okay?_

Shaking his head, Tactimon laughed dryly, low and close to imperceptible. Of course, only his Maou no Beelzebumon could get away with such a thing.

"Idiot," he said under his breath, unable to bring himself to care about the amount of love evident in the word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I really wrote that because I couldn't stop hearing Tactimon as Mako's Aku and Bii as Commander Shepard. Yes, this is absolutely a shitpost for my beloved memes.


	9. what lies beneath

**what lies beneath**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Sometimes Tactimon forgets, because Beelzebumon is an anomaly, though he isn't sure if it's by choice or not.

When he thinks of Beelzebumon, his mind's eye conjures an image of a hopelessly love-struck idiot who's more than happy to trip over himself in order to please Tactimon.

Trees topple like a flimsy house of cards cast away by a bored child's breath. They explode into data, swept away on the unnaturally howling gales reducing the forest and mountain range to less than ash.

He thinks of eyes that are always alight with humour and love, of sharp-toothed grins that are oddly charismatic, of a devil's face that is forever set in contrasting cheer and friendliness that will never run out of kind words or patient understanding.

The ground heaves, splintering and coming apart as pieces of it rise and fall in tumultuous waves until it shatters as though it's delicate, fragile glass, and begins to disappear into nothingness on the screaming wind.

He thinks of a dramatic fool stretched across his lap like some manner of overgrown feline, tail happily curled around him while its owner playfully pouts and begs for affection like it's the funniest thing in the world.

Sometimes Tactimon forgets. When he thinks of Beelzebumon, he doesn't think of  _this_.

"Was it worth it, brat?" Beelzebumon asks as the destruction settles into the overwhelming blackness of the night. His three eyes glow an eerie neon yellow in the dark, the demonic slits hyper-focused on the ravaged figure attempting to rise. Beelzebumon plants his foot on the digimon's back and presses down with what appears to be little effort.

The earth beneath them immediately cracks in all directions, the deafening sound of it drowning out Astamon's cry of pain, though he still has the unbelievable audacity to offer a slick smirk.

"Maou… I-I believe we've come to a s-slight m-mis—" he manages to rasp out before the rest of the air's driven from his lungs in a brutal movement that slams him further into the dirt.

Beelzebumon clicks his tongue behind his fangs. "I asked you a question, brat. They not been teachin' you this sorta shit down there?" The demon lord cocks his head, a savage grin that seems too wide for his mouth splits his face into something truly monstrous.

Astamon doesn't reply, desperately gasping for breath under Beelzebumon's boot.

Beelzebumon's eyes glimmer with twisted amusement and his hearty, boundlessly cruel laugh echoes in the silence, as cold as the icy breath leaving his lips.

"Not gonna answer me, eh?" he remarks, eyes narrowing as his laughter dies down to rumbling chuckles. He kicks Astamon onto his back, the sheer force of it enough to leave the younger digimon completely disoriented.

Beelzebumon is on him before he can recover, yanking him to his feet by the ruined tatters of his shredded robe. He laughs again, a low, predatory sound when he finally sees the appropriate fear he's been looking for in Astamon's widened eyes.

"'Misunderstanding,' huh?" Beelzebumon repeats, pulling him so close their faces are nearly touching, the action's singular purpose designed to incite terror. "You're a cheeky little fucker, ain'tcha? I guess I gotta turn this into a lesson now, don't I?" One of his metallic clawed hands closes around Astamon's throat, cutting off any reply the silver-tongued demon has.

Beelzebumon's grip begins to tighten slowly but surely and Astamon claws at his wrist in vain as his feet leave the ground.

"Pay attention," Beelzebumon says wickedly, deadly accurate in how he handles the wildly struggling Astamon. He never uses enough pressure to do the once sophisticated and elegant digimon a kindness nor does he relent in any way.

"You see him over there?" Beelzebumon's ghastly smile takes on a sickeningly sweet edge, only serving to enhance how horrifying he looks. He inclines his head towards Tactimon, and Astamon stops struggling briefly when their eyes meet. "That,  _that's_  where you fucked up real bad, brat." The demon lord's hand tightens faster, forcing Astamon to break Tactimon's unreadable gaze.

Tactimon says nothing, merely observes the scene unfolding with a marked interest, filing away all the details he'll later contemplate. He's seen this side of Beelzebumon before—however sparingly—but nothing  _quite_  like this. Ironically, he's still reminiscent of an overgrown feline, albeit one that's toying with its prey.

"Y'see," Beelzebumon begins, the lines of his face abruptly hardening, all traces of any sadistic pleasure falling into a merciless seriousness. "I  _don't_  like it when he has to see this side of me. It  _upsets_  me." He brings Astamon's quickly paling face closer again, squeezing tighter, and snarling. "I  _really_  don't like it when the other Maou start screwin' around in my business, but I like to think I'm a pretty reasonable guy."

Beelzebumon grins up at Astamon, all pointed teeth and eager viciousness, and releases him for little more than a second before his claws slide clean through Astamon's shoulder like a hot knife through butter. Blood and data splatter downwards over his arm, flecks dotting Beelzebumon's face.

"Like I said earlier," he says conversationally, letting Astamon drop. Beelzebumon speaks over the choked, wounded noises Astamon's making, "I'm gonna teach you a lesson before I send you back to your playpen." His tail strikes Astamon across the back for good measure, where a thin, deep line splits open and begins to weep blood and data.

Beelzebumon hums a growling sound as he considers what he's best learned over his years away from the Dark Area, his grin growing wider as a fearsome laugh escapes him. He turns to Tactimon and asks, "Mercy, yeah?"

_Mercy,_  Tactimon thinks and shakes his head in vague exasperation. The definition of mercy that this version of Beelzebumon's considering isn't anything remotely close to the true meaning of the word.

"It would be more efficient to kill him," he replies, but makes no move to interfere, eyeing Astamon's shuddering, breathless form with disdain and caution. It hardly matters what judgement the would-be assassin deserves for trying exactly  _that_.

If Tactimon feels pity, it's because the scheming, arrogant wretch reminds him of himself kneeling before Omegamon. Back then, he'd found Omegamon's brand of mercy more a cruelty than any kindness the Royal Knight had intended.

(It would be kinder to kill him.)

"Hmm, not so sure about that," Beelzebumon says airily, wrenching Astamon upwards by his hair, tail slamming into the backs of his knees. "They  _really_  shoulda kept a better eye on you. Lettin'  _me_  in on who you are…" the demon lord trails off, breaking into barely restrained harsh laughter.

Tactimon makes his way over to them in measured steps, giving Astamon a critical stare. Between the shades of varying fear and uncertainty, Astamon glares up at him, all willful pride, and behind that a malevolent rage chained at the center of his digicore.

Whether they kill him or turn him loose, the other Maou will likely retaliate, and he voices as much.

Beelzebumon cackles in earnest, torn between utter hilarity and beastly excitement. "Oh, they can try, babe!" He flexes his claws, tail swinging back and forth like a wrathful pendulum. "But it sure as hell  _ain't_  gonna end well for  _them_."

Sometimes Tactimon forgets that Beelzebumon used to be a monster—that he still possesses the capabilities to be a monster. (That he still  _is_  a monster.)

It doesn't bother him nearly as much as the world tells him it should.

(After all, is he no monster himself?)


	10. sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to my pal, Reppa, for giving this a read-over for me.

_a long, long time ago_

_i can still remember_

* * *

 

**sunshine**

**.**

**.**

**.**

_(you are my sunshine)_

Magnamon snorts, attempting to withhold heaves of traitorous, jubilant laughter threatening to spill from his mouth. His tail swishes back and forth in delight, betraying him regardless.

"Lame—you're so  _lame_ ," he grits out through clenched teeth, grudging glee scarcely contained. He rises upwards out of the fountain, water cascading down his gleaming, golden armour.

Ulforce, ever the carefree one, rocks with bellowing laughter, unfazed at the various onlookers giving more and more pause at the public spectacle.

"But it's true!" he argues in gasps, the words close to unintelligible, remaining sprawled out in the fountain's pool, unbothered by the water sluicing down and over him. "You  _are_ —"

Magnamon shoots him a withering glare, its effect negated by his poorly hidden amusement. "I am  _not_. The other one is"—he pauses, voice lowering, forcing down a blush at the obvious crowd watching with eager eyes and listening with even greedier ears—"…sweet. 'Sunshine' is…" Magnamon looks away, authoritative glower boring into the suddenly nervous crowd.

Ulforce's laughter dies down to hiccupping chuckles, gold eyes crinkling in affection and good fun. "Stop denying it. You're the epitome of—"

His breath catches in his throat when he gazes up at Magnamon. The beaming sun bathes his majestic form, another halo of ethereal light framing the Radiance of Miracles, so true to his title.

"Big word." Magnamon cocks a sarcastic brow. "Did Craniamon teach you that? …Vee?" He floats down, the movement gentle, careful of the fountain's now misfiring spouts of water. "You there?" Magnamon flicks his nose, curious.

Ulforce blinks at the firm flick, broken out of his reverie, then smiles as brightly and warmly as the brilliant sun akin to Magnamon.

"Sunshine," he whispers, leaning in to nudge their foreheads, truly uncaring if anyone sees them. "You're my Sunshine."

Magnamon, hesitant though he is, returns the nudge, a smirk lighting his features.

"It might grow on me."

_(my only sunshine)_

"Magnamon," he breathes out, cradling his beloved against him, shuddering. Magnamon says nothing, arching against him with equal fervour, heated eyes speaking volumes. They're so terribly piercing Ulforce wonders if he can see into his soul.

"Vee," he hums back, voice hoarse and low—and  _god_ , the  _sound_  he makes when he moves—

Ulforce nearly comes undone, anchored only by the haunting intensity of Magnamon's eyes.

 _Mine,_  Ulforce thinks, the singular word comprehensible through the transcendent haze of desire and a never-ending love he doesn't think should be tangibly painful, but it  _is_ —indescribably so, and he  _never_  wants it to end. Such a pain he would endure 'til the end of all things.

The exquisite, resplendent ache in his chest, in his taut, aflame body, he never wants it to end.

Magnamon grips him by the back of his neck, craning upwards, expression smoldering.

"You're mine," he growls as if he's read Ulforce's thoughts, kissing him passionately, each one burning more than the last until Ulforce is certain Magnamon's fire will burn him alive.

" _Sunshine_ ," he manages in a throaty, tremulous whisper, and all turns to radiant stars and ash behind his eyes.

_(you make me happy)_

Ulforce gazes with adoration at the intricate vase of massive flowers he's proudly put on display for all to see.

"They're just flowers," Magnamon huffs, giving the silent but grinning Dukemon an evil side-eye. "I can do better—I  _have_  done better," he amends, embarrassed by the obvious dramatics. "It's—"

"Not trivial," Ulforce finishes for him, winking when Magnamon puffs up in undue anger. His anger, though, is fleeting, and almost never serious. Not for something like this. Maybe, Ulforce considers, his partner hardly finds it a worthy one-upmanship, especially in the presence of another.

If anything, Dukemon appears as starry-eyed as he must.

Perhaps their gift war is silly, and most definitely clutters up Yggdrasil's overly spacious castle—a feat of impressive magnitude to be sure (according to Omegamon and Craniamon, at least).

Ulforce treats anything Magnamon gives him like the rarest, most coveted treasure. He strokes the soft, almost fuzzy petals—similar to Magnamon's ivory length of skin if he thinks about it—between his clawed forefinger and thumb, content to let the welcome warmth creep up his neck and face.

"I love  _everything_  you give me," he says without thinking, reaching to take Magnamon's stiff hand into his own, claws gently tracing patterns against the scales there. "It makes me happy."

Magnamon splutters for a second before composing himself, jamming his elbow into Dukemon's stomach when  _he_  starts to swoon at the romantic gesture.

" _You_  make me happy," Magnamon murmurs, hand tightening around Ulforce's. He leans in to nuzzle the blue knight's neck, taking a moment to breathe in his scent. "I'm glad."

_(when skies are grey)_

Ulforce regards the statue before him with a solemnity rare beholden. He studies the details of Imperialdramon's face, all courage and conviction and an unending will that carried his comrades to a glorious future brighter than he could've imagined, immortalized in nothing more than stone.

Somehow, there's something about it that's…  _wrong_.

He's not looking at a tribute to a friend, to a lover, to their founder, but a cold, lonely tomb. A future the brave paladin never lived to see, memory now imprisoned between their earth and Ophanimon's heaven. Omegamon's platitudes and false smiles can't fix this, RhodoKnightmon's roses can't fix this, Yggdrasil's— _God's_ — _pitiful_  roses can't fix  _this_.

It's a  _mockery_.

(Why can't Yggdrasil bring him  _back_?)

"There you are." Magnamon's stern voice laced with concern carries through the air and Ulforce's head snaps up on instinct. He watches the golden knight descend, silent as the grave he's been contemplating.

Magnamon's touchdown kicks up a mild burst of rose petals around his feet as he hovers there, sharp eyes filling with worry when Ulforce fails to greet him. "I didn't expect to find you… _here_ ," he begins, the uncharacteristic quiet unsettling on the deepest of levels.

Magnamon reaches out, hand caressing Ulforce's forearm, and his eyes ask,  _Why?_

Ulforce's eyes dart away momentarily, not trusting himself to speak, not to say something utterly offensive and inane and  _stupid_. Because he always does. Because he doesn't know how to be serious. To be serious is to be—

"Vee," Magnamon implores, grip turning to iron. Nobody comes here purposeless— _nobody_  wants to admit they come here.

"I hate it," Ulforce answers, vehement, voice near cracking, "is this… is this supposed to be…  _nice_? D'you really think he wanted them to remember him this way? Do you—" He halts himself, chokes back the bitter tirade threatening to tumble out.

_Do you want to remember me this way?_

Magnamon is silent in turn for an unnervingly long time, though his hand loosens gradually. Still, it remains a comforting presence.

A breeze picks up and snatches some of the white roses surrounding Imperialdramon's feet away with it.

Finally, Magnamon says, "I don't know," and it's terrifying to hear, that he has no plan, no secret, no  _miracle_  stashed away.  _He doesn't know._

"I do know," he speaks louder, sliding himself under Ulforce's arm, "that I… I wouldn't want this. And I wouldn't do this to you," he adds, tone steely, before Ulforce can get a word in edgewise. "But I don't plan on dying any time soon, and death, well…" he trails off, a hint of a wry chuckle shaking his shoulders.

"Death isn't fast enough to catch you."

Magnamon doesn't mention the tears in Ulforce's eyes when he smiles.

_(you'll never know, dear)_

UlforceVeedramon is the undisputed fastest digimon alive. Magnamon is right. Death can't catch him. But...

**.**

**.**

**.**

" _It'll be alright, Vee. I'm made of miracles, remember?"_

His body disintegrates into sparkling motes of data that glitter blindingly—a chorus of lights singing a dirge of farewell—and are carried away on the wind, and Ulforce's trembling hands are as hollow as the black hole of a void in his heart.

_(how much i love you)_

They speak every now and again, once Ulforce has left Yggdrasil's castle. Once he's left all his friends behind, once he's left every room as it once was, once he's left all of Magnamon's gifts and memories and  _love_  behind.

Ulforce is the fastest digimon alive, and he  _can't_  outrun this.

"I thought about visiting Examon," he says to the empty grave marked by a single stone engraved with the Crest of Miracles, twirling a daffodil between his fingers, wings limp. The rest lie at the foot of the simplistic grave, paper holding them together messy and wind-torn.

His eyes narrow and eventually he has to close them, as if Magnamon's ghost is staring at him, damning him for his cowardice.

"I didn't go," he admits with a quiet laugh, shaking his head, "I don't think I'm very good company, anymore. I dunno that she'd wanna see… I dunno."

He doesn't, and he sits there talking to the open air, the  _empty_  air, and pretends Magnamon is listening to him well into the night.

He pretends Magnamon is listening to him for years.

_(so please)_

His heart thuds in chest, something dead shocked back to life, when the rumours are true, when he's  _real_ —when he's  _here_.

Ulforce's hands are cold and clammy, but it doesn't matter, as if Magnamon ever cared for as much as he loved to complain. He takes a step forward, feeling the wind, the speed against his back—so much force the ground cracks ever-so-slightly beneath his foot, and then—

And then… nothing. Omegamon's powerful hand squeezes his shoulder, deadweight that threatens to drag him to the bottom of the sea. He's been drowning for  _years_  already,  _why—how_ _ **dare**_ _he?_  Ulforce comes close to turning his saber on his superior, rage flickering across his face until he sees Omegamon's own.

The sorrow there is confirmation enough.

_(don't take)_

Magnamon is a being wrought of miracles, but this… this is a  _curse_.

"Pleased to meet you," he says, though he's anything but, all acid and seething anger, barely kept in check by Omegamon's hard stare. "Magnamon," he introduces, the single tight word filled with more scorn and hatred than Ulforce's ever thought capable coming from the mouth of the one who loves  _(loved)_  him so dearly.

He swallows down the sobs that threaten to break free and does what he always does—act the fool.

"UlforceVeedramon, at your service!" he exclaims, the perfect picture of chipper, and tosses his trademark wink at the golden knight. He can... he can do this much, at least. Magnamon deserves this much.

_(my sunshine)_

_doesn't remember me_

_(away)_

"Come, child," Examon orders her small comrade, her graceful rumble enough to tear Magnamon's vicious scowl away from Ulforce. Without hesitation, he glances up at the Dragon Empress, and his relief is clear as day; he wants  _nothing_  to do with the rest of them. Gliding alongside her massive, elegant body, he casts Ulforce a final, icy glare.

If Omegamon has anything to say, Ulforce can't hear him over the cacophony of grief wailing inside his head.

He never stops smiling, not for a second, and gives a cheerful wave to the retreating pair.

His Sunshine deserves that much, in the end.

* * *

_(afterword: you told me once, dear)_

Baalmon scoffs, lanky form shaking with sardonic laughter.

Satellamon stops strumming his guitar, eyes rolling, not the least bit surprised.

"You have  _no_  taste, little scholar," he says, lazily plucking at the chords, humming the tune along with each slow pluck.

"Are you singing  _me_  a love song? Sentimental sap," Baalman accuses, critical eyes glittering with mirth beneath his messy, curly bangs. "And no," he adds sharply, red eyes pinning his companion with a half-hearted glare, "I don't wanna know where you learned that. Not the kinda information I collect."

Satellamon chuckles at the muttered  _loser_  that drifts to his ears, eyeing one of the torn bottoms of his scarf in intrigue. He snaps his fingers, pointing at the scrap of red cloth tied to Baalmon's arm.

"I'm the sentimental one? I see."

Baalmon's robed arm shoots upwards to hide said bandana, glare taking on a cutting edge. His mask does well enough to conceal the unwanted flush colouring his cheeks, but the bounty hunter's got some sort of extraordinary sixth sense for it.

"You know damn well I've—"

It's Satellamon's turn to laugh, though there's nothing unkind about it, "Yes, yes, since you evolved." He doesn't mention how Baalmon lost his original long ago, how hilariously sad he'd looked and how he'd bemoaned the loss of his favourite accessory.

He doesn't mention the genuine excitement and affection he'd seen in Baalmon's eyes when Satellamon had offered a piece of his own.

"Smug, much?" Baalmon heaves a sigh, propped up on his elbow. Attentive as always, even if he doesn't want to admit it.

Satellamon's fingers stop their movement, hovering over the chords as he laughs again, boisterous, and it echoes throughout the sandy canyon.

"No."

If Baalmon possessed lasers for eyes, he doubts he'd be little more than scorch marks smeared across the sands.

"A little," he concedes, retuning his guitar absentmindedly.  _I like seeing you wear it,_  he thinks, has thought for a time too long, but Baalmon… Baalmon should— "I thought you knew everything." Satellamon shrugs, an easy-going smile playing across his lips, a ghost of a sigh catching on the tail-end of his amused exhale.

Baalmon seems to wither for a fraction of a second, a desert flower wilting and succumbing at last, but it's gone in the next blink. His elongated hand subconsciously reaches to obscure the eerie, glowing pinprick of crimson light peeking through his blue, atrociously wrapped bandana.

"Nah," he replies, sounding a little ill, the blue flesh around his eyes paling. He can't bring himself to meet Satellamon's questioning gaze. "I wish…"

As if he has something else he wants to share. Satellamon's suspected for some time that Baalmon hasn't been quite right. He'll never tell whatever secret he's keeping, though.

"I wish I did, One-Shot," he finishes, double-barrelled gun sliding out of his sleeve. He cocks it, studying it like it's become the most interesting thing in the world. The setting sun catches his eyes, and the blazing glow that illuminates them reveals a thin line of neon yellow circling his pupils.

"So…" Baalmon speaks up hesitantly, picking up and sheathing his Dashenbian he's left lying beside him. "Care to teach me that one-shot trick of yours?" His eyes close in a smile and Satellamon can't help the sinking sense of dread dropping into the pit of his stomach.

Even so, his answer is filled with good-natured derision, "You, master of the blade, hater of all things with a trigger? You, who refuses to—"

"I swear to Yggdrasil's nonexistent ass, get back to singing if you're gonna—"

Satellamon sets his guitar aside, materializing one of his massive guns. He tips his hat and offers Baalmon his free hand.

"Turn down teaching you to shoot straight? I wouldn't give that up for the world." He grins, pushing his hat back up.

If they could do this forever, exist like this forever, Satellamon would be content.

Still, he has to ask, "Why the sudden interest? Expecting trouble?"

_Please say no._

"No good reason," Baalmon says, and it's either the greatest lie or most terrible truth he'll ever tell.

**.**

**.**

**.**

" _Not much of a little scholar anymore, are you? I suppose… you were always meant for greater things… those infinitely greater than I."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appmon in your Digimon fanfic? It's more likely than you think. Wonder how much hate that'll net me. FWIW, the full song doesn't apply to Magna/Ulforce, but Satellamon was certainly singing the full version. Hm.


	11. by your side

**by your side**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Tactimon remembers a quote from halcyon days long past, of silence and love and friendship and betrayal.

 _Silence: the truest of friends, that which cannot betray you,_  and his sister had scoffed and tossed her head back in mad laughter. He hadn't understood why back then, when he could find no falsity in the words. They weren't wrong; it didn't berate him, it couldn't judge him, it kept his secrets, it was impossible for it to betray him.

It couldn't  _hurt_  him.

The summer air is humid yet breezy, a hint of chilly wind cutting through the heat, and the evening is filled with the melodic hum of hidden insects. The orange glow of the setting sun filters through the trees, radiant rays of warming, soothing light like a myriad of ghostly fingertips resting against his back. Tactimon shifts, almost as if to slide out from underneath their grasp.

It couldn't understand him, either.

Listening—in the most superficial of ways—perhaps, but Tactimon had stopped talking to something that couldn't answer him decades ago. No, it couldn't berate or judge him as so many had, and it kept his secrets as well as the dead—an invisible shroud that held others at bay for as long as he desired.

Tactimon isn't certain he wants that anymore.

Bii twitches in his sleep, growling something unintelligible, and struggles restlessly until Tactimon gently wraps his arms around him and moves him with great care. He tucks him into his left arm, hand curling around his waist, and allows Bii to lie against his chest instead of awkwardly sprawled across his lap.

"Nn, wha?"

Bii's eyes briefly flutter open and he tries to blink the sleep out of them, but Tactimon brings his free hand to stroke the wild mess that is his partner's hair. He does it slowly, methodically, reaching underneath the purple mask to give Bii fond scratches that he subconsciously presses into.

Tactimon no longer scowls at the way the sight lifts his heart.

"Love ya," Bii murmurs near inaudibly, more asleep than awake, and snuggles into Tactimon, nuzzling his head into the crook of Tactimon's neck. He settles there, the tail-end of his quiet exhales light purrs. His tail gradually winds around Tactimon's waist, and then he's still again, a solid and warm presence in Tactimon's lap.

Tangible— _real_.

Silence can't _love_  him, and  _pain,_  Tactimon thinks, pain he's had enough of to last several lifetimes over. His hold on Bii tightens, right arm cradling the demon lord's lanky legs. He rests his chin atop Bii's head and closes his eyes.

This silence he can endure until the morning. Bii never runs out of things to say, and while he may never admit it, Tactimon loves hearing all of them.

 _I love you, too,_  he thinks to himself, and his heart sings in time with the cicadas.


	12. the bikini incident(s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pure crack, inspired by some Discord shenanigans: "now it's just Omegamon in Kamina's sunglasses, wearing a bikini over his armour, and sparkling hard af."

 

* * *

**the bikini incident(s)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

RhodoKnightmon stood, transfixed by the image before him, rendered utterly incapable of speech.

Duftmon waved a cautious hand in front of his face, intrigued by the lack of, well… sentience, it appeared.

"What are we— _oookay_ ," the casually approaching Dynasmon managed to stammer out, torn between joining Rhodo in awestruck staring or turning on his heel and pretending he'd never seen a damned thing. "Uh," he attempted, lost for words, and rubbed at his eyes, as if it would dispel the incredibly bizarre sight. "Duftmon…?"

"Yes?" he answered, preoccupied with his various hand waving and tapping tests on his motionless nemesis.

Dynasmon tried and failed to keep his jaw from dropping and weakly pawed at Duftmon's shoulder, wanting confirmation he wasn't tripping absolute balls.

Duftmon's eyes rolled and he scoffed, shrugging the taller knight off with ease. What he said next, however, would shatter whatever sanity Dynasmon yet possessed.

"Omegamon's sunbathing in one of RhodoKn—"

"That… that belongs to… Rosemon," Dynasmon's traumatized, feeble voice rasped out.

Duftmon ceased his ministrations on Rhodo to properly assess Omegamon's attire again, eyes narrowing critically. Stroking his chin as he observed, he said, "Hm, I see. Indeed it would. However…" he trailed off, tilting his head, eyes closing to an analytical squint. "I cannot ascertain the purpose behind the glitter in the suntan oil."

Dynasmon couldn't either, for the life of him, figure out why their respected and— _sane?_ —leader was coated head to toe in an oily sheen of iridescent lotion that had him sparkling brighter than a discoball, wearing one of his lovers' skimpy string bikinis and a pair of radically arched, V-shaped sunglasses.

For reasons unfathomable, they elicited a primal urge to begin shouting incomprehensibly about drills and piercing the heavens.

"This is completely acceptable," Duftmon stated with a sly smirk, green eyes gleaming with a terrible purpose. A method to decommission Rhodo? Yggdrasil,  _yes_ , this was excellent—their leader was a bonafide  _genius_ , though it was highly probable he neither cared nor had a clue. "Who would I be to question Omegamon?" His smirk widened into a near savage grin, rumbling with ominous chuckles.

"Dear?" Craniamon's head popped out from behind a corner, expression drawn in a slight frown. He scrutinized RhodoKnightmon and Dynasmon's shellshocked appearances, and in the next second he  _understood_. Unwilling to stare into the abyss himself, he called out, "Omegamon, you're blinding the children.  _Again_."

Snapping out of his chill daze, Omegamon pushed his sunglasses up and adjusted the sheet of foil he was using for maximum tanning. He spared the trio gawking at him—though it was fair to say Duftmon's evil cackling suggested anything but—a bored, annoyed glance and leaned back farther in his beach chair.

"It's my day off," he said and proceeded to crank up the volume on his ancient MP3 player, headphones blaring old ass electronica.

Craniamon made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a bark of laughter, and motioned at Duftmon to come away from the spectacle.

Before departing, Duftmon placed a hand on RhodoKnightmon's shoulder and whispered the devastating truth, "He looks  _better_  than  _you_."

Dynasmon's blood ran cold, and he paled and turned in horror. "Holy Hua— _why_  would you—"

Broken out of his stupor by the harsh reality of Duftmon's words, Rhodo's ribbons twitched violently and he thrust his face into his palms, emphatically wailing, "HE  _DOES_!" He fell to his knees, dramatic sobs wracking his form.

" _Really_ ," Craniamon muttered, giving his partner a muted glare, though he ran his fingers through Duftmon's luxurious hair regardless. "Was the cattiness required?"

Duftmon didn't dignify the awful pun with a response, tail instead whipping out in a harmless lash. One of his wings curled around Craniamon's mid-back, returning the affectionate gesture.

Reaching up and running his hand atop Craniamon's, Duftmon replied with an air of smug confidence, "Of course. A  _sliver_ of a fraction of what the miscreant deserves. Although," he paused, head shaking back and forth minutely, "what  _is_  the intent behind the glitter?"

"It's a… very, very long story," Craniamon said, struggling to keep his composure over the combined screeching of RhodoKnightmon and Dynasmon.

"For once, I have time." Duftmon threaded his fingers through his partner's, still rumbling with hilariously maniacal laughter.

"Drama queens," Omegamon grumbled to himself and turned up his wicked sick tunes.

* * *

Cherubimon and Seraphimon gazed down from the Kernel in rapt attention, admiring the frankly insane yet somehow…  _alluring_  scene. It wouldn't be the first or the last time they watched the hilarity of Yggdrasil's so-called elegant and regal Royal Knights.

Omegamon in that bikini was—

" _What_  are you two doing?" Ophanimon's confused voice rang out and they sprang back from the edge, slamming into and tripping over each other in an attempt not to be caught peeping.

Ophanimon gently touched down next to their panicked bundle of armour and fur, her feathery, lower wings trembling in amusement as she chuckled. She gave one of Cherubimon's limply hanging wing-like ears an encouraging scratch and nudged Seraphimon's only visible foot with her toe.

"Oh," she said, peering down at the chaos, "is Omegamon wearing  _that_  bikini again?"

"…Yes," Cherubimon admitted, sighing and planting his chin in one massive hand, heedless of Seraphimon trapped and complaining underneath him.

"And you  _didn't_ call me?"

Cherubimon snorted and Seraphimon choked simultaneously.

"Next time, love," he promised the grinning Ophanimon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I debut a handful of plot-crucial, dignified characters through poorly written crack. 8) Duft/Crania are platonic life partners, pass it on.


	13. dinner date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna label this one mostly crack. While fluffy, cute, and provides more insight into Bii and Tactimon—especially some of his backstory—I find them both too OOC for my tastes. It was, however, a practice in writing more domestic fluff and cavity-inducing romance, so in that respect I guess I succeeded? Something about this piece always struck me as wrong characterization-wise. If you wanna hit me with some concrit, feel free.

 

* * *

**dinner date**

**.**

**.**

**.**

"Trying it will not kill you."

Beelzebumon made a loud, mixed noise of doubt and being grossed way the hell out. While Tactimon could easily understand his intent, the Bastemon couple seated beside them did  _not_  and paled at what clearly sounded like a deep garbled growl.

"Babe," Beelzebumon deadpanned, cringing at the ceramic, bowl-shaped cup sitting before him, "I've seen  _acid_  that looked better." He studied the vibrant, emerald green slime through suspicious, narrow eyes. Ugh, screw 'cultural enrichment,' it looked awful, and when he raised it up to sniff, decided it smelled like a terrible combination of some kind of sickly sweet plant and rancid body wash.

"Better.  _Acid_ ," he repeated stubbornly, tapping the lip of the cup with his index finger.

"Indeed?" Tactimon said idly, raising a brow at Beelzebumon's dramatics. "How interesting. I believe the phrase is, 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours.'"

Beelzebumon whistled before he could stop himself, smirking at Tactimon's choice of wording.

"Hot damn," he murmured, giving the nasty drink another critical stare. If Tactimon kept this up, he was gonna win by the 'implication of sexy shenanigans' default. "You sayin' all I ever needed to do was show you some high quality acid pits? The Dark Area has, uh—" Beelzebumon cut himself off when he heard various horrified gasps and noticed several pairs of nervous eyes dart to him. "As in the casino, y'know, one of them themed places," he recovered smoothly, dialing up his charm to twelve. Still, a charismatic smile to him really  _wasn't_  for anyone else, sans Tactimon.

"Pay them no mind," Tactimon stated, his regal authority leaving no room for argument.

Ah, well, easy to say until the cops—maybe Dukemon if they were lucky—showed up for the millionth time.

Beelzebumon tried to filter out the vigourous, hushed whispering that he could hear above normal conversation and the low, pleasant music playing in the background.

Date nights—especially public ones—were  _always_  filled with this sort of thing. Tactimon, if he intended it or not, never failed to make a majestic, eye-catching entrance. His appearance alone caused intrigue and awe among regular digimon… and then his overwhelming sinister aura and domineering attitude had them practically keeling over on the spot.

It wasn't like Beelzebumon's own appearance was any better, what with the whole 'biker demon lord clad in leather, metal, and armed to the teeth' thing, but he'd long since grown used to the terrified reactions his kind incited. The discrepancies of his eyes and facial markings were pretty much ignored. Most were too ignorant or young to ever be aware that those markers indicated he was the infamous Maou no Beelzebumon in the first place, and generally only reacted to his boogeyman title.

(Okay, it was probably more than just  _that_ , but semantics were boring as all get-out.)

In fact, Beelzebumon had found the way the masses reacted to he and Tactimon as a totally weird, contrasting couple hilarious up until random morons had tried—operative word being 'tried'—starting unprovoked fights with them.

…Man, that last sushi restaurant hadn't deserved the unfortunate fate it'd met, he thought with a tinge of guilt.

Beelzebumon gave the place another once over on instinct despite being tucked away in a cozy corner booth. While not the high class decor he had come to expect from Tactimon, the mint green walls and wood panelling weren't shabby by any means. Paper lanterns—shit, he  _hoped_ those were the fancy fireproof kind—hung from the ceiling, giving off soft, ambient light. They sat across from each other at a fairly small wooden table.

It went without saying that the joint practically sparkled from how clean it was. Tactimon steadfastly refused anything less whether it was his turn to pick or not.

Beelzebumon loved it anyway because it was so freakin' cute to watch the perfectionistic Tactimon plan a date like they'd be riding out to war while trying to maintain some semblance of romance. A memory of his flustered boyfriend whapping him with his super-secret plans flashed through his mind, and he struggled to choke down inappropriate snickers.

Regardless of cuteness factor, Beelzebumon still wasn't going to drink the toxic substance Tactimon insisted he try. He grimaced as he swirled the liquid in the cup. It had the consistency of runny sludge.

Beelzebumon grimaced at the disgusting sight, baffled at how easily Tactimon sipped at his. Though he didn't speak, his steady, expectant gaze never left the demon lord.

"C'mon, Tactimon," Beelzebumon whined, putting up his most pathetic act—huge, glassy eyes and over-exaggerated slump included. Unknown to him, he continued to scare the patrons that looked on with fraying nerves. "I ain't drinking…  _this_." Beelzebumon plonked it back on the dark table forcefully, crossing his arms and glaring at it.

"You're acting ridiculous," Tactimon said, entirely unamused that his partner saw fit to act out like a child, in public of all places. "This is hardly poisonous, it's merely—" He fell silent as their server—a Renamon who by all accounts appeared incredibly calm, though they radiated an anxious energy—swiftly delivered a rather obscene amount of food. The Renamon inclined their head in a fast, jerky motion and disappeared as quickly as they'd come.

The random shows of respect were also an amusing side-effect of their appearances.

"Wow," Beelzebumon watched the Renamon go with wide eyes, "that one's gettin' a tip for not passing out."

"Your attempt to derail conversation no longer works on me," Tactimon stated flatly, deftly transferring what he wanted to his plate with a speed most couldn't hope to match. He'd learned long ago to hoard his portion before Beelzebumon devoured it all.

Beelzebumon huffed at what he considered a needless action. "I'm kinda offended right now, just sayin'." The demon lord puffed up like an angry bird, his fluffy hair and jacket collar doing nothing to dispel the image.

Tactimon shot him an unconvinced glance and his shoulders shook with brief, silent laughter.

"You possess a very selective memory, then," he said, threads of amusement lacing his even tone, offering up a piece of unagi with his chopsticks. If there was one thing his demon lord liked above all else, it was being fed. Head pats and cuddles ranked closely behind in intimacy, but Tactimon preferred this act when physical contact was off the table, no matter how foolish he felt doing it.

Beelzebumon's face lit up and he happily chomped at it, almost severing the chopsticks in the process. "Aren't you just the sweetest," he purred, his words rumbling—quite literally—with happiness and innocent pleasure. He gently tapped Tactimon with his tail under the table in an affectionate gesture.

"Stop that," Tactimon muttered in warning, embarrassment colouring his stern tone and a blush creeping across his cheeks. "Not in public."

"Mm, alright," Beelzebumon drawled, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "By the way," he made an exaggerated show of leaning forward over the table to grin at Tactimon in self-satisfaction, "I totally derailed the conversation." He gave him a mischievous wink.

"Such insolence." Tactimon bristled at the realization. His hand snapped forward in a blur, angling his chopsticks so he could stab at Beelzebumon's nose under his mask. Even if he wouldn't voice it aloud out of stubbornness, Beelzebumon's ability to outplay him filled his chest with a warmth that chased away the frost that had once filled the hollow places in his heart. "…And yet, that you did. Impressive."

Beelzebumon burst into a fit of deep giggles, basking in the undivided attention. He pulled his mask further down so Tactimon couldn't repeat the action. "Sore loser as always, ain'tcha?"

"Hardly, or would you prefer I rescind my compliment?" Tactimon remarked dryly, holding up another piece much to Beelzebumon's delight.

"Aww, don't be like that." Beelzebumon didn't stop openly giggling around the mouthful, nudging Tactimon's foot with his own, earning himself a harsher tap in return. "Guess who loves you?" he chirped, tail coiling around Tactimon's lower leg, nestling it in the crook of his knee where his extensive armour gave way to cloth.

Tactimon didn't make an effort to stop him this time, instead shifting his robing and part of his cape to conceal the intimate display.

"Truly, a difficult question," he said, his voice deadly serious, though his intentions were far less than. "I am a very unlovable person, after all." Tactimon hummed a low, entertained note at Beelzebumon's momentarily stunned expression.

Of course Beelzeubmon knew he didn't mean it, but the sarcastic remark still bothered him on some level. "You gotta keep working on your jokes. A bit too self-deprecating there," he snorted, half in humour and half in concern as he stroked the back of Tactimon's hand.

"Also," Beelzebumon said offhandedly, although his eyes gained a predatory gleam, "it's  _me_ , babe." The eager demon lord nearly launched himself across the table in order to sneak in a peck, dodging the light smack meant to put him in his place. He re-seated himself, relishing Tactimon's unintelligible grumbling.

(The now ghostly-white Bastemon couple threw an indiscriminate amount of money on their table and hurried out of the restaurant like their lives depended on it.)

"I would reply in turn," Tactimon said with great care, closely observing Beelzebumon's reaction and noting the retreating pair, "but I fear the repercussions after  _that_." He wiped away the kiss mark in resignation, and Beelzebumon's face fell comically as he used the full force of his trademark pout.

Tactimon gave him a disapproving look, his judgemental silence saying more than enough.

"Fine, fine, maybe my self-control could use some work," Beelzebumon admitted, unable to hold back a snerk at Tactimon's muted glare. Eyeing the overabundance of food with rekindled interest, he said, "I'll go back to dinner and drinks like a good boy, no worries."

"I worry regar—"

Beelzebumon tipped a long, oversized serving plate's worth of artfully crafted maki rolls into his mouth, engulfing the whole thing in one go, causing Tactimon to sigh at the crude behaviour.

"Whuff?" Beelzebumon asked, cheeks full.

Tactimon held his free hand up in a 'stop' motion, shaking his head. A single inaudible laugh rolled through his shoulders for the second time that night; it was rare to see him in such high spirits—the sight heartwarming.

"Nothing, and as you've so kindly reminded me: what you are repulsed by is simply tea. Koicha, to be exact," Tactimon explained, pointing to the not so forgotten cup of tea.

Beelzebumon swallowed the massive mouthful in one easy motion that would've choked and/or killed many others. "Damn, for real?" he said in disbelief, picking up the cup to sniff the contents again. "Why does it smell like sh—grass and soap? And believe me, I'll bet  _everything_  I own that it tastes the  _same_."

Tactimon's posture stiffened and grew more formal. "Do you have  _no_  inclination to expand your horizons?" His usual chilly tone edged back into his voice, a minute frown hardening his relaxed expression.

 _Oh, for_ — Beelzebumon groaned dramatically, head smacking the back of the booth—thoroughly frightening the couple on the other side.

"Why are you so stuck on this?" he asked, eyebrows furrowing in vague annoyance and increasing curiosity. It wasn't like Tactimon to keep on something that was trivial at most.

"That is a… reasonable question," Tactimon replied, sounding slightly surprised and something distant that Beelzebumon couldn't place, which was becoming exceedingly rare. He averted his eyes, looking at something across the room, face unreadable and somewhere deep in thought.

 _Yggdrasil's nonexistent ass, did I just mess something up?_ he wondered, immediately nervous and somewhat ashamed. Oh crap, had this whole thing actually meant something more than one of their regular dates to Tactimon?

"I suppose it reaches back to my youth, when I was unable to travel from my home-server at will," Tactimon began pensively, setting aside his chopsticks as his glowing eyes met Beelzebumon's own. "Akasuna's molten climate does not allow for a great many things to grow naturally and it did not occur often that merchants were given permission to freely sell or trade their goods."

Beelzebumon listened to him attentively in awed silence, taking on his rarely seen seriousness. It…  _wasn't_  at all usual for Tactimon to reveal things about  _before_  he was Tactimon, let alone freely speak about his past beyond that.

"As you can imagine, it made some items luxuries that even a so-called 'honourable' and 'heroic'  _knight_  like myself couldn't afford," Tactimon continued, the bitterness in voice increasing with each word, tension filling him form. His hands subconsciously clenched into fists. "The few times I was permitted to visit the Capitol to participate in the dueling competitions, I experienced things beyond anything I could've imagined. Akasuna was as xenophobic as it was isolated," Tactimon nearly snarled with finely trembling fists, but forcibly returned his tone to something akin to an impassive nostalgia.

"This is important to you," Beelzebumon intoned quietly, understanding that what Tactimon had planned had meant something deeply personal. That he was finally willing to confide in someone he trusted not to hurt him.

Beelzebumon took one of Tactimon's fists into his own hands, grasping it with a firm yet soothing grip. He gripped Tactimon's hand with both of his own, pressing soft kisses to his knuckles, desperately wanting to show his love and support in a calm fashion.

Tactimon froze for a moment but didn't withdraw his hand, fingers uncurling as the anger drained from him. "In the Capitol, this tea was surrounded by more ceremony than the casual use of it displayed here, yet I've enjoyed it all the same. I…" he hesitated, looking away from Beelzebumon to stare at the table. The seconds ticked by as he ran through whatever he was overthinking, and Beelzebumon's anxiety grew the longer the silence stretched on.

Tactimon hesitantly laced his fingers between Beelzebumon's and met his eyes again. "I wanted to share it with you," Tactimon confessed, the depth of emotion in his voice infinitely better than any flustered or begrudging  _I love you_  Beelzebumon could tease out of him.

"Thank you," Beelzebumon said, utterly heartfelt and as loving as he knew Tactimon was comfortable with. A ghost of a humourless smile played on lips and regret tinted his gold eyes. "Sorry for being such an ass about it," he murmured, repositioning his free hand over their interlocked ones, as if to add another layer of security, "I shouldn't have—"

"No," Tactimon interrupted with a hint of wryness, "the fault lies with me. I am not innately talented in the art of subtlety when applied to romantic endeavours, it seems."

Beelzebumon chuckled at the formal phrasing, relieved that Tactimon felt at ease enough to return to less loaded and emotionally charged conversation. "Not really, but I love you all the same." He pulled Tactimon's arm over the table again so he could kiss the back of his hand.

Tactimon went still as a statue, caught wholly off-guard. His heart jumped into his throat and an immediate blush so strong it may as well have begun glowing as fiercely as his eyes overwhelmed his face. He turned away sharply, pointedly staring in another direction as he collected himself, nonetheless comforted by Beelzebumon's unmoving presence and patient gaze.

He looked back up at the smiling demon lord, forcing down the rampant blush that only made Beelzebumon's smile warmer. "I… feel similarly…" Tactimon replied with an uncharacteristic softness, squeezing Beelzebumon's hand reassuringly. Had they not been in public, he would've gladly and more than willingly kissed him.

"Don't think I could ask for more," Beelzebumon placed Tactimon's hand against his cheek, nuzzling it lovingly. "Or, wait." He frowned in confusion before beginnings of laughter started to bubble up in his chest. "Were you saying I'm bad at this?" He could hardly finish, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth to contain his laughter.

Sometimes, Tactimon wondered if Beelzebumon was proud of his stupidity. " _Idiot_ ," he said under his breath and snatched his hand back, cursing his wording.

"Oho, so it finally comes out; you think my romantic skills are bad?" the demon lord shot back, cheerful grin back in place.

"Yes," Tactimon deadpanned without hesitation and Beelzebumon cracked up at his frank savagery. "I expected something…  _different_  out of a digimon of your age." He scoffed, unable to banish Beelzebumon's expert skills at ruining tender moments from his mind. "Do you deny it?"

Beelzebumon reined in his wild laughter and said, "Pfft, nah. Dukemon  _definitely_  thinks I'm hopeless, he's just too nice to say it out loud."

(What sounded like evil, maniacal laughter quieting and the mention of one of the esteemed Royal Knights' names did very little to calm the frantic atmosphere that grew more panicked and erratic with each outburst the rest of the restaurant's occupants perceived as a threat.)

"I cannnot say I disagree, however… 'Hopeless?'" Tactimon echoed, playfully feigning an air of offense. "And what am I, exactly?"

"What?  _No_ , I didn't  _mean_  it like—" Beelzebumon caught on before his panic took him too far, groaning and rolling his eyes at himself for being duped. His precognition didn't take him very far with Tactimon, as he'd learned. "Quit tryna give me a heart attack." He tried to flick the protruding horn of Tactimon's helmet in vain and had his hand swatted away instead.

Now, though, it was time to buck up and follow through with what Tactimon wanted to share with him.

"Alright, then, I'm gonna give it a go," Beelzebumon said resolutely, fully releasing Tactimon's hand so he could pick up the cup of tea that would forever look like some form of toxic sludge to him. "Cheers, right?" He threw back the cup and downed the matcha like some form of thousand proof alcohol.

Tactimon stared in bewilderment, blinking at the completely wrong and rather stupid way to consume the tea. "I would not have recommended that, nor would I have recommended it in any cooler form," he said, slowly falling into a facepalm.

Beelzebumon set the cup down and stared back into Tactimon's eyes, licking the thick, overpowering taste from his teeth, refusing to let his eyes water.

"Babe, I'm real sorry, but… it tastes like grass and soap," the demon lord felt he had no choice but to tell the sad truth, crestfallen that this was something they were probably never going to bond over.

Tactimon dropped one of his hands to stroke Beelzebumon's tail. Said tail was currently curled around his upper thigh. When had that happened? He held the waves of mirth at bay as they threatened to release the genuine laughter caught in his throat. Beelzebumon's sincerely disappointed and guilt-charged expression was  _priceless_. He'd only wanted him to try it and understand why it mattered to him, not share his tastes on it.

"At risk to my sanity," Tactimon started, raspy chuckles catching the tail-end of his breaths, "why do you know what those taste like?"

Beelzebumon's dipped head whipped upwards and he cast his partner an odd look that seemed to speak of a severe lack of intelligence. "Seriously? I'm Maou no Beelzebumon, the Demon Lord of Gluttony. Why  _wouldn't_  I know what that shit tastes like?" he said like it was the most obvious answer in the world, with an arrogance reserved for his position alone, and far, far louder than he should have.

After a beat of pure silence, the entirety of the restaurant broke into chaos as the half that'd heard shrieked in terror and climbed over each other in an attempt to escape as quickly as possible while the other half followed in confusion and herd mentality. The staff watched on, unsure if it was best to follow suit or just pretend they never heard it.

Beelzebumon peeked around the corner of the booth with deliberate slowness once the mad rush had settled. The restaurant remained in surprisingly nice shape given the panicked storm it'd just weathered. Only a few tables were overturned and a handful of plates and glasses lay scattered and shattered on the cream-coloured tiling.

"I may have screwed that one up," Beelzebumon chuckled nervously, ignoring the petrified faces of the collected staff.

"Only slightly," Tactimon shrugged, then turned to their awkwardly stiff yet vaguely twitching server. "Sake, please."

Like the vast majority of digimon Tactimon directed orders at, the Renamon, whose fur was now dishevelled and sticking out messily, vanished in an even quicker, more harried blur to fulfill his request.

"Booze? Too crowded for you, eh?" Beelzebumon asked, eagerly scanning the vacated dining room for untouched plates of food (that was his partner's singular rule for stealing other people's food, really). Once he had his targets in sight, he stood up and began collecting various plates from the multitude of empty tables.

"Perhaps," Tactimon shrugged again, eyes gaining a devious gleam as he smirked, "I didn't let you in on the entirety of my plans, you see."

Still juggling the mass of plates stacked on his arms, Beelzebumon turned to him, a cheeky grin showing off his fangs.

"I think I like the direction this is goin' in." Maybe, just  _maybe_ , he hadn't unwittingly destroyed his chance for a 'romantic'—read: sexy—evening.

If Beelzebumon was one thing, it was certainly…  _dependable_ , Tactimon believed, not so put off by his partner's mishap that he'd dismissed the rest of his plans.

"Unless you are capable of telepathy, I doubt that," Tactimon hmphed imperiously, though his contradicting smirk remained. He cocked his head and beckoned the demon lord with a come hither motion. "For that comment, I wonder if your gluttony extends to punishment, however?"

"So worth it," Beelzebumon purred wickedly under his breath.

Yeah, hot-freakin'-damn,  _indeed_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna word of god a few things: Tactimon's prior forms were not any manner of samurai digimon and this piece was mostly inspired by a conversation I had with someone regarding matcha, and tbh I love sushi myself and that's how this happened, pfft.
> 
> But a question for the readers now that we've reached the last scheduled update! Is there something you want to see done? Characters that haven't been explored but intrigue you? Characters in a certain setting or situation? Something you want expanded on? My question to you is: What would you like to see written? Now is absolutely the time to ask/request, and I'll do my best to honour them.
> 
> (i'm an adverb monster, end me)


	14. garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been really sick, please don't crucify me for the length. xx;

**garden**

**.**

**.**

**.**

"Master! How dare you!" Noir and Blanc cry out in outrage, twin voices high-pitched and crystalline. And yet, they falter not, the small hands that grip their readied weapons steadier than all the stalwart warriors Gankoomon's fought beside.

Hackmon is no different, lunging forward to both protect the Sistermon and lead their attack. "We won't let you harm our master!" Her childish voice is savage and full of conviction against a foe they can't possibly defeat.

But there is no fear, never fear from his three precious students. From behind, they don't see him smile. He pats their heads and they wilt a fraction, weapons lowering slightly.

"But Master…"

_We exist to protect you._

Gankoomon stands tall as a mountain, just as immovable, just as unbreakable, his strength unparalleled. He wipes the dirt from his cheek, the only thing his challenger had as proof that they'd even landed a hit erased because there is no mark. Not nearly strong enough to make one.

"Master," Hackmon pleads when he steps forward and throws his coat open, his fists the only weapons he needs.

"Raising your hand against my students is unforgivable," Gankoomon says, tranquil as a mountain lake as Hinukamuy rises from his body and hums in agreement. The air crackles and he grins.

"Shall we begin our dance?"

They're wrong, he exists to protect them.

* * *

Gankoomon isn't infallible. He's wrong, and he pays for it. Though his body is battered and broken, he grins through the pain like their enemy hasn't touched him. His spirit is unbreakable, however...

This isn't his dance to win.

"Master!" Jesmon's enraged voice snarls, as sharp and deadly as every sword she wields.

No longer is she the tiny, scrappy dragon viciously snapping at the heels of all who would harm him, but the blindingly regal and courageous knight she's always dreamt of becoming, a protector and champion to all, undefeated and unrivalled like the master she still idolizes.

Noir and Blanc have awakened into elegance and dignity, unstoppable forces in their own right, guardians that will never back down—equals that stand alongside Jesmon, their strength and confidence impenetrable and immovable as the mentor they learned it from.

"Irredeemable," Blanc states coldly, her fury palpable in the very air itself, lance crackling as if it's Hinukamuy incarnate.

"Unforgiveable," Noir adds with a fierce growl, though her composure never slips. Once she fires, Jesmon and Blanc will end it in a flurry of grace that puts the other Royal Knights to shame, their dance now the unparalleled one.

Gankoomon has known no greater honour than to watch his students—

The grin slips from his face, raw emotion eclipsing it with a revelation so absolute there is no denying, no lying to himself, not anymore.

Gankoomon has known no greater honour and pride than raising and guiding his  _daughters_ , to watch them grow and flourish from the foundation that was once his mountain.

They exist to protect each other— _family_ —and he smiles and finds no shame in his tears.

(Father, the title suits him well. His girls think so, too.)


	15. worth it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still p sick, still shorty shorts. ;; I said I wouldn't post this one to my archives until I made it longer but. Ahaha. Right. What's self-control again?

 

_so an information broker and a bounty hunter walk into a bar—_

_wait, wrong story..._

_alright, so an information broker and a bounty hunter hold a stakeout in the dunes_

_and it ends up being_

* * *

 

**worth it**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Baalmon sighed and tore his eyes away from their mark, head craning upwards comically slow to meet Satellamon's disgustingly cliché soul-piercing stare.

Satellamon merely tilted his head a fraction, beginnings of a sly smile pulling the corners of his mouth upwards.

Baalmon couldn't decide if it was more infuriating than it was attractive—by turns, making the decision for him. Ever vigilant and to a degree supernatural, his partner's devious smirk widened like he'd heard the thought itself.

 _Smug bastard,_  he thought and pulled his mask higher up his face, though it did nothing to hide his blush from Satellamon's apparent omnipotence.

"One-Shot," Baalmon began, patience near its absolute end, cursing the goddamned sand he'd spent the past half day lying in—which Satellamon clearly felt was beneath him, quite literally, judging by the way he hovered above, arms and legs crossed with an aristocratic grace that hardly suited him. "'Eyeing me up for the past  _hour_. Just  _say_  it," Baalmon cut straight to the point, jaw clenched. The tip of his gun poked out of his sleeve, not that he'd ever land a godforsaken shot in the first place.

(He hated his gun almost as much as he hated sand in that moment. Almost.)

Satellamon's broad shoulders dropped as his posture became less formal, a hum rumbling in his throat. "Ah, at last willing to hear the wisdom of your elders, little scholar?" His blue eyes twinkled in amusement, sharp as always.

Baalmon sneered back at him. "If it gets you to stop starin' at my ass, go for it."

"My, my," Satellamon said, eyebrows raising at the accusation, "certainly not my intended target, but if it makes you feel better—"

"Shut. Up. Before I blow our cover," Baalmon ground out, using all of his willpower not to surge upright to slam the hilt of Dashenbian into that painfully pleased face.

"Your wish is my command," and the grin in his velvety voice was hands-down the most  _grating_  thing in the known world, more irritating and coarse than the sand Baalmon'd slammed his face into to escape. He heaved a resigned groan and prayed to Yggdrasil for their mark to just  _leave_  the warehouse and end his suffering.

Hearing Satellamon shift as he straightened and his guns thrum into existence, Baalmon glanced back up at him, wary.

"You see, my friend," Satellamon said with all the wisdom of the ages and then some—enough to put any god to shame—confident hand on his cocked hip, the other inevitably finding its way to his hat in an exaggerated gesture, "there's no success without the succ."

Baalmon choked, stumbling over his words, caught between the sheer ridiculousness of the phrasing and a BanchoStingmon finally emerging into the blinding daylight. "The—the  _what_?" he couldn't help but ask, utterly incredulous.

"The succ," Satellamon repeated smoothly while tipping his hat, "and frankly, partner, I don't see you getting either."

The silence would've been deafening if Baalmon was one to be outdone, but they were finished here, and when he was done with the BanchoStingmon, his dumbass "partner" was next.

"Funny," he deadpanned, bringing his blade forward in a quicksilver motion, glaring through hooded lashes, "I could say the same to you."

Taking hold of his guns and lining up a shot, Satellamon let out a peal of laughter, obviously delighted by the response. "First to land a hit takes seventy percent. Never change, Baalmon," he replied affectionately and with no small amount of teasing, pulling the trigger in the same breath.

_Distraction—son of a—_

Baalmon dove off the ledge snarling an, "I  _hate_  you," that echoed throughout the canyon and carried on the wind as he dove downwards, moving too fast for the startled mercenaries to see, racing against the twin beams of green energy honing in on their target. One day, he'd learn to shoot, purely out of spite.

"I love you, too, darling," Satellamon called after him, still laughing as though he wasn't about to take a group of idiots for all they were worth and drag their worthless leader back for a handsome price.

Without a care in the world, and really, he didn't have to. Satellamon never failed to live up to his One-Shot nickname.

And maybe, Baalmon thought with a savage grin beneath his mask, he'd let the sharpshooter off easy for the last remark, provided he got there first.

But Satellamon never missed, and he was counting on that.

(He loved Satellamon almost as much as he loved his Dashenbian. Almost.

Although it'd be a very cold day in the Dark Area before he ever admitted it.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this just because I wanted a solid piece behind my vision of Satellamon saying a specific Woody meme and SAND IS COARSE AND ROUGH AND IRRITATING AND IT GETS EVERYWHERE. Legit, that’s it.
> 
> Bii seems to have a type, and it's folks that take every opportunity to roast him.


End file.
